


Through the Looking Glass

by Darienne_LeFey



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-05-05 23:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 46,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5394038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darienne_LeFey/pseuds/Darienne_LeFey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this version the Inquisitor is from here and now. She is plunged into the world of DA:I during the events at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> While I am planning to stick with the story, I am using poetic license should it work with this incarnation. There will be smut (hopefully I can scandalize the Randy Dowager) & gory bits though not in every chapter. If new tags/warnings are needed, I'll update. The plan is for a slow burn romance... or two. We'll see where the adventure takes us!  
> I hope to post a chapter a week - or two depending on whether or not muggle life intrudes too much.
> 
> PS - I am new at this, so positive feed back is great, constructive criticism is not unwelcome, if there is a point of canon that is incorrect, please let me know. If it's not an intentional divergence, i'll fix it. 
> 
> Happy reading! I hope you enjoy!!

Chapter 1

The susurrus of wind through the trees kissed her ears, quietly urging her forward. Darienne broke into a light jog as the trail away from the road invited her deeper beneath the canopy of old pines and crooked vine maples. She didn’t slow until the sounds of the weekend traffic faded and all that met her ears was the wind in the trees and the occasional rustle of unseen forest creatures.

Blood thrummed in her ears as she eased her pace and let the rhythm of her breath even out. She inhaled deeply and looked at the emerald rainforest around her. She loved this place. It was her sanctuary. When dealing with the harsh realities of human frailty became too much and family drama threatened her sanity, the forest was her peace. Here in this place, the trials and tribulations of life ebbed and she could focus on the simple task of putting one foot in front of the other. Finding her pace, she reveled in the burn of her muscles as she climbed higher into the mountain and further from the world.

A cackle off to her left brought her out of her musings and she found herself looking for the interloper into her peace. Glancing up, she spied a crow dancing among the vine maples.

“Good afternoon,” she grinned up at the inky beast, “would you care to join me?”

She paused as the bird flew to a branch several trees further up the trail and cawed insistently at her. Frowning, she crept closer. It didn’t look right. At first glance, she’d taken it for a crow, but it was too big. A raven then? She watched it more closely as she threaded her way up a particularly overgrown section of the path. It was hard to get a good look at it from below but its feathers seemed unusual. It was as though it had some kind of crest of reddish plumage behind its head.

“What are you?” she squinted at her unusual escort and ran through her mental catalog of bird species. She was by no means an expert - but she’d spent enough time outdoors and watching Animal Planet to have a basic knowledge of the local birds. Ravens weren’t common this close to the city, this one’s appearance was definitely out of place. Then, there was the red. Clearly, this was no ordinary raven – if a raven at all. She frowned up at the dark raptor.

The bird croaked and ruffled its feathers as though offended, then leaned forward and cawed loudly at her before flying further up the embankment and off the trail.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Darienne grinned and took off through the ferns in pursuit. She knew the path like the back of her hand, she was confident a short diversion wouldn’t get her lost. She gave the disappearing path a sideways glance, downhill would inevitable lead her back to the main road and civilization. Besides, Starbucks always tasted better after an adventure. 

Sensing her pursuit, the crested raven cackled and flew further into the forest. Winding through the brush and minding the soft peat beneath her feet, Darienne slowed her pace as she found herself a little deeper than she’d intended. The husks of burned trees surrounded her – reminders of fallen giants from and age long before weekend warriors wandered these woods. Pausing to get her bearings, she looked around for her quarry. Her efforts were rewarded by a familiar cackle and the fluttering sound of flight as the raptor landed on the twisted branch of a dead vine maple.

“Well then,” she whispered, inching toward the bird, “may I get a closer look at you?”

It cocked its head to the side in a decidedly avian fashion and watched her warily as she approached. Its feathers were the same black as any raven but its features were harder. The beak was thicker somehow and its legs were larger, like a falcon or a hawk. The crest along the back of its neck was more pronounced than she’d realized. She’d never seen anything like it.

It cawed at her, making her jump back and slip on the root system of some long dead conifer. Then the winged beast chittered and took off into a copse of tangled maples. She lost sight of it initially, but the crack of various twigs and the rustle of leaves gave her a good idea of its direction. A chill came over her and she had the distinct impression that it wanted her to follow it. There came another insistent cackle from the greenery and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

She glanced back the way she had come, searching out markers to distinguish her path. The burnt pine, the skeleton of a vine maple and the large fungi on the twin pines… she calibrated her bearings. She knew that chasing a strange bird into unmarked parts of the forest was idiocy, but she’d always played by the rules, always been cautious. Just once she wanted to act before she thought. She turned and gazed back into the archway of maples and thought of the strange bird that had led her here. She longed to be reckless – but getting lost in the woods without anything more than an ipod and a water bottle would probably be more stupid than adventurous. Sighing, Darienne bid her mysterious friend farewell and turned to find her way back to the beaten path.

A deep sadness touched her unexpectedly. She snorted and shook her head, what did she expect after all? A grey wizard with a long beard to burst out of the trees and invite her on an adventure? A dragon? The king of elves? A party of weary hobbits? No, she sat on a stump and looked up into the forest canopy, there was no magic in this world. There was metal and technology and modern convenience… but no magic. A witch she might call herself, but no matter how she danced beneath the moon, magic never manifested beyond the warm tingling sensation in her hands; phantom dreams and delusions of a child turned woman. No, magic and adventure were the providence of fairytales and daydreams.

The hairs on the back of her arms and neck stood on end then, and a deafening crack from behind her made her jump just as the concussive force of an explosion she couldn’t see threw her to the ground. Scrambling back through the brush, Darienne turned toward the source just as the black raptor dive-bombed her and cawed at her before flying into the detritus of broken trees in front of her. Regaining her footing she called out for help and was immediately answered by the desperate scream of a woman.

Without thinking, she plunged into the wrecked foliage, heedless of the brambles that tore at her face and arms. The scream came again, hoarse with pain and fear before being cut off abruptly by an echoing crack and the buzz of static discharge.

“Shit,” Darienne breathed and redoubled her efforts to fight her way through the broken undergrowth in her way. There was no thought to her own safety. That scream said it all. It was the same scream that haunted her nights and the memory of echoes that whispered in her ears during her waking moments. All the ones she couldn’t save. All the bodies on slabs, all the bodies of the living dead who’d given up and relinquished themselves to whatever drug of choice made their existence bearable. After a while, all their screams were the same in her mind. After a while they were her screams.

The steady hum of many voices thrummed beneath the crackling static. There was a pale green light filtering through the undergrowth. It pulsated in eerie rhythm to the wordless hum. Shouldering her way through the last of the fallen detritus, she nearly fell into small clearing and the source of the light. The crested raven swooped past her, wingtips catching her cheek and drawing the faintest line of blood with feathers that were tipped with tiny nettles no earthly bird could possess. She touched her cheek and absently noted the dark liquid on her fingers as she stared, dazed, at the gilt mirror before her.

There was no doubt that this was the source of the strange light. Small forks of lightning danced along its silvery surface and the steady hum of voices began to grow louder and louder until she couldn’t distinguish whether the sound was around her or within her. Her breath caught in her lungs as she slowly approached the mirror. Lightning clawed the surface and the ground around it in staccato bursts, leaving scorch marks in the grass beneath it.

The mirror’s surface rippled and an image slowly emerged from its cloudy surface. Her image shimmered on the glass then faded revealing the figure of a woman. She hung suspended above a stone circle, her hands manacled by the same greenish lightning that emanated from the mirror. Her long white and red robe was singed in places and stained with dark fluid Darienne suspected was her own blood. Dark figures surrounded her, but Darienne could not make out any further details.

She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know how to help. Glancing around her, Darienne looked for something, anything that might help her free the woman – if she could even get to her through the mysterious looking glass. A slender branch about the length of her body and the width of her wrist seemed the most likely candidate to help her. Not that she had any fucking idea how the hell she’d use it, but she couldn’t turn her back. It wasn’t in her nature to turn away.

There was a growl from beyond her field of vision and the woman in the mirror convulsed and screamed. Darienne gasped and took a few hurried steps toward the mirror before a finger of lightning reached out to her and sent her reeling several feet. The woman fought her restraints and looked up, directly into Darienne’s eyes.

“Somebody,” she convulsed again and reached towards Darienne, brown eyes dull with pain and exhaustion, “Help me!”

“No,” Darienne whispered. Rage, disbelief and fear all fought for supremacy in her head as all the times she’d been powerless to act boiled up to overwhelm her, “No!”

The echo of her own scream mingling with the woman in white, Darienne launched herself at the mirror.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dungeon floors and manacles are the least of Darienne's problems...

Cold damp leeched its frigid fingers into her darkness and dragged her back to consciousness. The incessant throbbing in her head and the excruciating pain in her ribs were unwelcome confirmations that she was alive, if only barely. She tried to remember what happened. There were explosive green flashes behind her eyes and a searing agony in her left hand that stole her breath leaving her gasping for air. Blurry images crossed her thoughts but there was nothing solid she could remember. Trying only made the pain in her head and hand worse.

She collapsed back onto the ground and whimpered at her ribs insistent protests to her breathing. Focussing on the cold beneath her, she became increasingly aware of the fact that she was no longer on the soft forest floor. Gingerly she reached out with her right hand and touched the damp stone beneath her. It was smooth, but felt time worn more than engineered. She risked opening her eyes, letting the grey light filter through her lashes before committing to assaulting her senses with a full view.

Shadows became walls and walls slowly became stone and metal. Blurred movement became figures walking with the rhythm of hurried people – though they seemed bulkier than normal proportions, as though they were wearing… armour. She closed her eyes again, unwilling to risk shaking the incongruent images from her mind. Fuck – where was she? Shouldn’t she be in a hospital? She tried desperately to cling to that logic, but the very tactile reality of the stone beneath her denied all attempts.

She focused on breathing shallow breaths and taking stock of her body. Her left hand was aching and burning all at once, though she could flex her fingers slowly, if painfully. Good, she still had use of her hand, regardless of whatever damage had been done, her muscles and tendons were intact. Her right hand was sore, but the pain was more a rawness than anything. She risked moving her hands to examine them further, but found her movement restricted and she became acutely aware of the weight and scrape of metal against her delicate skin. Shit. 

She relaxed her arms, taking care not to let whatever bound her make any unnecessary noise. They were too heavy for standard handcuffs, so what then? The metal was broad, covering her wrists and part of her forearms. They fit loosely, but not so loose that she could easily slip her hand through. She turned her right hand a couple of times, the rough metal bit into her flesh and made her wince. Maybe if she had some sort of lubricant she could wrest her hand from the clamp, but she wasn’t particularly keen on using her own blood to do it. She smirked despite herself… when was my last tetanus shot? Then she remembered the hurried figures. No need to draw attention to herself – she had no idea where the hell she was or what was going on. The manacles around her wrists were a good indication that it was not friendly territory. 

Her thoughts returned to the woman she’d tried to help. Risking a heavy lidded glance of her immediate surroundings, she hoped to see the other woman, but found herself instead surrounded on all sides by metal and stone. There was no trace of the woman in white. She was alone.

A vision of stone stairs and green haze flooded her mind. She couldn’t see much, but a golden light and a figure reaching for her… then nothing but pain behind her eyes. She let out an involuntary gasp as the throbbing in her head and hand amplified. She tried to focus on the sounds of movement beyond what she could only classify as her cell. Had they heard her? She stilled her breathing and tried to ease the pain in her head.

There was movement to her right and the screech of metal on stone. With slow measured breaths, Darienne schooled her face in what she hoped was the neutrality of unconsciousness. A shadow passed over her face and the heat of another living being’s presence warmed the frigid air around her.

“Lay still,” a deep soft voice touched her ears, his breath condensing in the cool air, “I know you are awake, but they need not. Not yet. I ask you only to listen. I will not be able to stall them much longer but I will heal you as best as I am able under the circumstances. Your life is in no immediate danger. While they hold you bound here, it is out of fear more than malice – though I suggest you choose your words carefully in the near future. I have managed to slow the spread of the fade magic but I am only delaying the inevitable. I don’t know who you are or from whence you came, but that you survived the explosion is both testament to your strength and unfortunately… your guilt. Though I know you to be innocent, they do not.”

She felt heat flood her chest and ribs as the voice continued,

“Your clothing, your language… when you return to your intermittent semi-conscious states… even the feel of your connection to the Fade is different. You are not from here. You are not from anywhere I have ever travelled. How then, I wonder did you come to survive an explosion that has changed the face of Thedas?”

The warmth in her chest spread throughout her body and the pain began to ease. Her breath came with less effort and the throbbing in her head dissipated. She swallowed gingerly and parted her lips,

“The mirror,” she whispered before the darkness of exhaustion, fear and relief overcame her. Her last conscious memory was the gasp of the voice in her ear.

Darienne had no idea how much time had passed. The darkness was broken by flashes of greenish visions of spider-like beasts chasing her and bright lights accompanying the sensation of rough but not unkind hands moving her around. The not unpleasant cacophony of voices would draw her from the chittering nightmares of whatever the emerald haze held if only briefly, before the darkness would claim her again. Slowly, there was more light than dark and the glittering of many eyes was replaced by the reflection of light off of metal breastplates.

Darienne gasped and sat up, trying desperately to shake off the feeling of being pulled down a dark hole. Dazed, she looked up only to find herself still in the stone cell that had haunted her conscious moments. At least there were no spiders. She shivered.

The screech of metal on stone caught her attention and she found herself face to face with a man dressed like a soldier from a fairytale. His rounded helm covered the majority of his face, but she could see his eyes clearly. They were round with fear and anger. He grabbed her by the shoulders and began to shake her roughly, shouting words she didn’t understand.

Her shocked silence seemed to anger him further and his gloved fingers dug into her upper arms. His fervor only increased and spittle flew from behind the helm, his voice rising with hysteria.

“I can’t understand you,” Darienne tried to keep her voice calm as she brought her manacled hands up in an effort to create some kind of barrier between herself and the increasingly enraged man. She regretted it instantly. Pain surged through her left hand and both she and the soldier gasped and drew back as fingers of green lightning crackled along the tips of her fingers and up her forearm. The hiss of steel alerted her to the unseen threat and she dodged instinctively to the left as the tip of his sword lodged itself into her right shoulder, the space her chest had just recently occupied. 

“Fuck!” Darienne half growled half sobbed. She’d never been stabbed. People didn’t fucking stab people with swords! Where the fuck was she?! The initial twinge of pain became a burning throb that spread down her arm. Instinctively she lashed out with her feet and kicked the off balance soldier in the knee. The wet pop and resulting scream told her she’d hit her mark. He dropped the sword and the abrupt change in the angle of metal in her flesh made her cry out again as she scrambled backward to put some distance between herself and the crazed man. Her brain went into overdrive and her vision narrowed. There was nothing but a blur of light and the screaming soldier on the ground across from her.

Shit! Fuck!

Think!

She couldn’t make this situation make sense. Nothing was making sense. Light glinted off the sword that lay inert between her and the moaning man. She had no idea how to use a sword. Fuck it – pointy end in the bad guy – ‘nuff said.

Darienne skittered forward and reached for the sword. The pain in her shoulder was excruciating, but she still had control of her hand. No sooner had her fingers closed over the hilt then a booted foot came down over her hand. The pain made her scream and she was sure the sickening popping noises that she felt as much as heard were at least two of her knuckles being dislocated.

A hand grabbed her by the hair and hauled her backwards, throwing her against the stone wall. She nearly blacked out, but fought to stay conscious. She wasn’t going down without a fight. She tried to move but found herself restrained by more than one pair of hands. Pain shot through her shoulder as she felt pressure on her wound. She grunted and tried to clear her vision. Adrenaline was coursing through her and she tried to bring her thoughts back into focus.

A voice managed to break though the cacophony in her head. It was a woman’s. The timber of authority was clear to her, even if the words were unfamiliar. Darienne’s vision refocussed and she saw a dark haired woman holding a swath of cloth to her shoulder and administering some sort of orders to other soldiers in the room. She did not sound happy.

The others picked up the injured man and carried him away, his complaints and insistent ramblings met with quiet placations and subtle frowns. There were more than a few sideways glances in her direction. The woman holding her nodded at two women standing in the corner of the room. At her unspoken direction, they came forward.

Darienne saw that their outfits were almost identical to the strange woman that had called for her help through the mirror. Her reaction must have been visceral because the woman holding onto her turned abruptly to look at her. Steely eyes scrutinized her and the scar along the line of her cheek puckered as her mouth set in a grimace. Her voice was soft when she spoke to Darienne and despite the language barrier, it was clear that her words were not meant to comfort.

The women came up to Darienne and took her mangled hand. One holding her by the wrist, the other reaching for her fingers. Darienne bit her lip and swallowed her scream as they relocated her fingers. The woman with the scar held her fast while her body bucked in pain and looked at her with something akin to respect when the two in white robes finished their grisly job.

A brief word to the two robes and they turned to leave. Returning her attention to Darienne, she released the pressure on her shoulder and scowled. Warmth flowed over Darienne’s shoulder and she noticed the dark stain spreading over her chest. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and swore under her breath.

“Damn.” She didn’t have the energy for much else at this point. If they wanted her dead, they’d had plenty of opportunities. If they wanted to question her, well, that was going to be a bigger problem unless they had some kind of translator, “Look, I don’t know what you want or why I’m even here. Hell, I don’t even know where here is.”

The woman cocked an eyebrow and shook her head. Darienne nodded back. At least they understood that they didn’t understand each other. She sighed again and found her breathing a little more laboured. Her dark haired captor seemed to notice and hastily put the blood soaked rag back up to her shoulder. She turned to the robed women and issued orders that sent them running in opposite directions. Moments later a male figure stalked into the room.   
Darienne could only see him in silhouette, but his manner implied grace and strength. He stopped suddenly, part way in the door, hands clasped behind his back. Though shadow covered the majority of his face, his grimace was palpable.

“What happened?” he glared a moment at Darienne’s keeper before moving swiftly to examine her shoulder. The woman shot off a few words before relinquishing her to his care.

“You…” Darienne was overcome with equal parts shock and relief, “I… I can understand you. You speak English?!”   
He shook his head and pulled the now coagulated bandage from her leaking shoulder.

“No,” he replied and then placed his hands on her shoulder and began chanting. Warmth flooded over her and she began to feel lightheaded. A blue glow began to emanate from his fingertips and she could feel a pulling sensation as though her muscles and skin were knitting back together. She tried to look, but her body wouldn’t cooperate.

“What?” she breathed. Magic? There was no device in his hands, there was nothing, only the soft glow and the uncomfortable but not painful pulling in her shoulder. Knights in armour, stone cells… she looked at the man healing her. No, not a man. His ears didn’t end bluntly, but instead tapered off to a fine point. No, not a man… an elf. Her mind tried to process what was happening but once again it failed to come up with any logical answers. The pain was real enough. If nothing else, she knew pain; that at least was something she was familiar with. She closed her eyes and focused on the pain. “Goddess help me.”

The elf did not stop his incantations, but she could have sworn she heard the resonant lilt of his voice take on a sorrowful quality; its very nature giving voice to her pain. Soon the pain in her shoulder began to ebb and her focus turned more to the words of her healer. She did not understand them, but found them somehow familiar to her. Trying to focus on the sounds. She found herself mimicking them until they were words. Words with meaning if not definition. She felt her hands begin to tingle and warmth spread up her arms to meet with the heat of his hands.

His voice faltered a moment and he pulled back abruptly, taking with him the warmth of his touch. He frowned at her and took a small ring from his finger. Turning to the dark haired woman that had been holding her, he spoke a few quiet words Darienne couldn’t understand. She nodded to him and turned her focus on Darienne again, her face a thin veil of neutrality covering a tumultuous combination of rage and sorrow.

The elf looked at Darienne and took her right hand, placing the ring from his small finger onto her middle one. The fit was snug, but not tight. The dark metal was cool despite its proximity to the heat of his healing hands only moments before. Black with flecks of iridescent blue danced in the torchlight as she examined it, then looked questioningly at the elf. The desire to thank him died on her lips as she frowned at the ring. It may not be a gift, but a binding. What did it represent? What were the implications of the exchange? He looked at her and smiled knowing exactly what thoughts had passed over her face. 

“No, it is not a trap, nor does it bind you in anyway. It is a practicality,” standing he turned to the dark haired woman and gestured to the ring, “Cassandra, the prisoner is not from here and as you have realized, does not speak our language. In fact, she does not speak any tongue known to me and I have never heard any language like it in my travels through Thedas. The ring on her hand is of my own devising and should prove to allow you to communicate.”

That said, he nodded at the woman he addressed as Cassandra and turned to Darienne with a slight bow before leaving the room.

Cassandra cocked her head and looked at her for a moment. Whatever judgment she was trying to pass, Darienne sensed a hesitance behind those steely eyes. She stood like a warrior. Everything Darienne had ever imagined a warrior woman to be, this woman personified. Her dark hair was neatly cropped, her armor was beautiful and clearly battle tested. The scar along her jaw only enhanced its strength and there was a grace in her stance that belied power. She could have been carved out of the finest alabaster both in physique and spirit.

“Who are you,” Cassandra crossed her arms, her gaze unwavering.

Darienne did not like the vulnerability of her situation. She was terrified, but to show that would make thing so much worse. The fact that she was bound kneeling to the floor did little to help. Nothing made sense. None of this should be real. The sudden agony in her left hand made her choke on her own scream. The coppery taste on her lips served as a very harsh reminder that she may not want to believe this was real, but what she believed didn’t matter in the least. Whatever this was. It was her reality now and she was going to have to suspend her disbelief if she was going to live long enough to wake up from whatever nightmare this was.

Recovering herself and sitting back on her knees, she lifted her manacled hands and wiped away the blood on her mouth. Her eyes never left the armoured woman above her. Cassandra arched a brow and remained still.

“Darienne, my name is Darienne.”

Cassandra nodded and walked forward, taking her by the arm and lifting her to her feet.

“You have a great deal to answer for… Darienne.”


	3. Echo of Sorrows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen realizes that despite forcing himself to move forward after Kirkwall, there is more he must face.

After hours of staring at the darkness, the grey light of dawn finally diminished the shadows that kept the camp in stillness and allowed his mind to feast on itself without the mercy of distraction. The first rustling of recruits, awkward and unfamiliar in their armor and the seasoned soldiers wrestling their nightmares into wakefulness were as welcome to him now as the first bird songs of day.

He closed his eyes briefly, the ghost of sleep cackled in his mind and fell silent as it so often did. Sucking the chill air in through his nose he reveled in the comfort of the familiar scents of leather, oil and the tang of metal that served as his skin for all the days of his memories. Everything before was simply a dream to him now. Faded wisps of reminiscences that he wasn’t even sure were his any longer.

Cullen smiled sadly and turned to the woman that lay to his right. Even in sleep she was a warrior. There was no softness in her, even in repose. He wondered briefly if there ever had been, or if, like him, she had beaten it back behind the lines of practicality and pain. To expose it was to expose oneself – a lesson he had failed to learn over and over until finally there was no softness left.

Warriors, both of them. Lovers, neither. He’d long since given up the fantasy of romance and softness in his arms. He faced the quiet figure beside him. She’d lost so much when the Chantry blew up. More than the Divine, whom she’d called friend. She had had a lover before their world had been torn asunder and the sky ripped open. He did not know his name. He did not ask. She felt the pain of that loss keenly though the hard exterior showed nothing of it. It was still tearing at her from within. He knew that’s why she had come to his tent so soon after. To his arms. She’d known that he would understand her pain and her need to hide it far from the eyes of any around her. She knew that he would let her use him to deny her hurt. So he had. In a way he had used her too. The two of them denying their pain and circumstance in the facade of physical pleasure. She had been a generous and skilled lover, but there was no love or passion between them, merely the guttural need to release masked in desire. They held each other in high respect and in one another’s arms they could pretend to be the strength the other needed.

It wouldn’t help though. He knew that this was simply another drug to hide from reality and pain. Pain never truly left though. It may be placated by pleasure or numbed by the blue demon, but it was patient. It would always return. He didn’t want that anymore. He was tired of running from it. Tired of bartering with it. Tired of letting it win.

Maker’s breath! He was a warrior. He’d been a Knight Captain - a Knight Commander. He’d survived demons and mages and his own commander. He would not give in to himself. He would endure…

“Cullen?” Cassandra was watching him warily, “Are you alright?”

He let out the breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding and released the death grip he held on the sheets between them. He would not replace one drug with another. He would take back his own body. His own mind. He’d faced down the demons in the circles, he would face down the ones in his mind.

“I apologize,” he shook his head and stood up reaching for his breeches, “I did not mean to wake you.”

Cassandra sat up, resting her hands on her knees.

“I wasn’t asleep, Cullen,” she leaned towards him, concern on her face. He smiled wistfully and turned to face her, his tunic forgotten in his hand. The look on her face was genuine. She was concerned, as a general might be for an officer that was injured; or perhaps if he tried, he could imagine it to be the concern of a friend. He had precious few of those anymore – if any. Perhaps one day.

“I do not think that this arrangement will work, Cassandra,” he sat beside her. He thought to take her by the hand, to perhaps speak gently about his fears for her if she continued on this path. For himself. But she was not a gentle woman. She was steel, forged in fire and tempered by loss – much like himself. She did not want placations and if she did, she would not want them from him. What they had was, at the core of it, an arrangement. It was not unlike when she’d recruited him out of Kirkwall. “I cannot continue as I had as a Templar. I cannot be a slave to lyrium, especially since we have an uncertain supply and those who will need it more than I. I need to be of clear mind. I need to focus on building an army. I understand if you want to seek another to command the Inquisition’s forces, but I will not do so under the control of lyrium.”

She seemed about to speak, but he held up a hand.

“I am aware of what I face if I choose this path, but I will endure it. I will give nothing less to the Inquisition than I did to the Chantry. You have my blade and my life, Lady Cassandra.”

He put on his tunic and boots without waiting for a reply and strode out of the tent. He didn’t want to hear what she thought. It occurred to him, as the morning sun warmed his face that he did not care. Whatever fate awaited him, he would seek it out in full command of himself. He would give his life as he chose, beholden to none but his conscience.

************************

Cassandra watched him go, stunned but not entirely surprised by the Commander’s outburst. She’d seen it building in the months since she’d recruited him. When she’d found him in Kirkwall, he’d thrown himself into helping the city and its peoples regain some measure of control and security. He had the fervor of a man on the brink of self-destruction; one who saw the abyss swallowing him whole and refusing to go quietly into that darkness. She respected that. The Inquisition needed a man of his skill and dedication as much as he needed the focus and hope that the Inquisition gave him. His refusal to continue with the lyrium was simply the next logical step. The final severing of ties with a Chantry and an Order that had seemingly betrayed him at every turn. She understood well what he meant and despite his own misgivings about her concerns regarding his abilities, she had none. 

She understood too, that this was the last time they would share a bed. She did not blame him. Hard and withdrawn as he was, pain and fear had not killed every dream in him. He would never be satisfied with a mere lover. His heart was not so closed as he might think. She only hoped the same was true of herself.

Sighing, she threw the sheets off the bed and quickly washed the night from her skin. The prisoner, was coherent and the wound in her shoulder was healed well enough that they could proceed with questioning. Cassandra frowned as she methodically put on her armor, the ritual of so many years clearing her mind.

Leliana had been able to find nothing on her. No lineage, no background… nothing. It was as though she’d simply come into existence the moment she stepped, battered and bruised, out of the Fade. The elf had been cryptic at best and very little help. Something about her not being from Thedas.

Cassandra growled. Justinia was dead, her greatest fears realized. She didn’t have time for this. She needed answers and Darienne, whomever she was, had to have them.


	4. Edge of truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bound in chains, how does Darienne convince Cassandra, and the mysterious shadow, that she didn't commit the atrocity for which they accuse her. How does she defend against a crime for which she has no knowledge?

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.” Cassandra’s eyes narrowed and Darienne noticed the very slight shift in her stance. A tilt to the right, making her torso a smaller target. The subtle transfer of weight to her rear foot. She was prepared to gracefully remove Darienne’s head or any other appendage she wanted. The glint of torch light off the edge of the sword at her side made it clear that not much effort on the part of the wielder would be necessary.

Darienne sighed and straightened her back, prepared for another blow. The helmed men and women that had held her before bringing her to this chamber had not been shy about expressing their displeasure at her ignorance. The ring had done a fine job of allowing her to understand what they were saying but it hadn’t helped them receive her replies any better. Apparently, I don’t know what you’re talking about, was not the right answer.

The blow never came. Instead the angered warrior woman snarled and shook her head. Frustration was beginning to get the better of her and Darienne could see it. She kept her gaze on the pattern of the sun inlay within the stone beneath her. She was going to have to do something. Soon. Whomever Cassandra was, she appeared to be in charge and seemed the most likely to be willing to listen without killing her for the truth. She needed to say something.

“I’m sorry for whatever happened,” Darienne began tentatively, “I truly am. But I do not have any idea what you are talking about. I know nothing of a Divine, a conclave or a temple. I don’t even know where I am.”

The booted feet in front of her grunted in disgust and Darienne found her left hand grasped in an iron grip. Yanked off balance she tried to recover but instead found herself face to face with penetrating brown eyes.

“Then how do you explain this!” Cassandra shook her and wrenched her left hand into the air. Despite the pain, Darienne had the distinct feeling that she was being put on display for someone she couldn’t see. Cassandra was making a point for someone else’s benefit.

“I… can’t.” 

Pain shot through her hand and green lightning arcs danced up as far as her shoulder. It was like being burned from the inside out. Each vein catching fire and spreading through her arm. The hiss of metal forced her to keep alert enough to remain conscious.

“We need her Cassandra.” A slender shadow stepped into the light and a delicate glove held Cassandra’s half drawn sword at bay. The hooded voice turned and a soft woman with hard eyes looked at Darienne. “Do you remember what happened? How you got here?”

“I remember walking,” Darienne took a deep breath. She’d better just tell them what she knew, whether they believed her or not didn’t matter anymore. She needed to say something and logically she didn’t know enough about this world to lie placations to them even if she’d wanted to. It wasn’t her style anyways. She vaguely remembered a mirror, but that was hazy now. All she really had left were scraps of the nightmares that had plagued her since she’d woken up on the stone floor. “I heard a voice calling for help. Then blinding light, green and stairs. Things were chasing me - Then a woman made of light… reaching for me –“

“A woman?” the shadow spoke. Surprise and something more warming those eyes. She turned to the stunned warrior at her side.

“Go to the forward camp Leliana.” Cassandra did not take her eyes from Darienne. There was still fear and pain in them, but now there was something more. The same light that touched her compatriot’s eyes shone now in hers, “I will take her.”

With a gentleness Darienne hadn’t been handled with since the unnamed elf had healed her shoulder, Cassandra lifted Darienne to her feet.   
“I don’t understand what has happened” Darienne ventured to speak.

Cassandra looked at her, dark eyes steady.

“Perhaps it would be best if I showed you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting! Muggle life tackled me hard... back up and running now... fingers crossed.


	5. Of dreams, demons and fairytales...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghosts of memories haunt Darienne and present dangers bring out a part of her she never knew existed...

The cold bit into her as she struggled to keep up with the woman in front of her. There was a lot to take in. Too much. Just put one foot in front of the other, she kept her focus on maintaining her pace and balance on the slick snow covered path. She glanced at the great jade tear in the sky, the hairs on her neck stood on end and the echoes of a woman’s scream brought back the specters of memories that she couldn’t quite grasp. Turning away, she looked at the straight back of the woman in front of her. Cassandra’s pace never faltered, her gaze forward facing, defying the past to reach out and try to pull her back.

Darienne’s heart broke for her, for the people she’d seen shuffling through Haven, shock and loss making ghosts of the living. Had Darienne witnessed the death of the Divine? Was that the scream? Was that the woman bound in red at the far reaches of her memory? Gods, she thought, what part did I play? She shook her head trying to unclutter her thoughts, the movement nearly cost her her balance. No, she again shook her head, no, I didn’t kill this Divine.

No. The scream in her head was for help. The memory of black wings crossed her thoughts and she blinked, reaching to touch the razor thin line of pink skin on her cheek. She shook the spectre away. This time she did lose her balance and the hard ground came up to meet her without mercy.

“Are you alright?” A gloved hand reached for her.

Darienne held up her hand a moment, begging the images and screaming in her head to abate long enough for her to reorient herself. They ignored her. There was a low hum growing in her mind, a familiar sound that was more a vibration than noise. Her left hand began to tingle and against her will, Darienne found herself glancing at the tear in the sky. The Breach.

As the word echoed in her mind, lightning exploded again from her hand and forced her back onto the ground. Pain wracked her entire body this time and fingers of lightning climbed over her shoulder and spread across her chest. Despite her best efforts and the blood on her lips as she bit down, she screamed. The Breach shook and its thunder rolled through the mountains. Even Cassandra, glanced warily at the distant gash in the heavens.

Strong hands held her shoulders when she finally stopped convulsing, and helped her up with a tenderness unexpected from the brusque nature of her keeper. She ventured a look at Cassandra and found genuine concern written in the hard planes of her face.

“We must hurry. The mark continues to grow,” she looked again at the Breach, fear and hatred vying for dominance on her face. Then sadness as she turned back to Darienne, “It is killing you.”

Darienne nodded and stood, shaking her hand and trying to will away the stiffness of time spent on cold stone and bound in chains. Her shoulder ached. Her head ached. Her soul ached. She was lost. Home was a memory that she’d had little time to indulge in. She took a breath and nodded at Cassandra. They had to get to the camp. They had to know if she could help. She had to know if there was a chance to return home. She followed behind Cassandra, only half listening to her explanation of what was happening in the world around her. She’d already been briefed on all the information time had allowed for. Lost in thought, she glanced around at the soldiers and people running and screaming from the direction she was headed. She could feel their fear.

Burning rock screamed through the air, hitting the ground behind her. The same path the soldiers had had taken. The same path she had just taken. Glancing back she watched a fallen soldier, body burned and mangled, twitch as the last of his life ebbed into the snow. Darienne gritted her teeth. Selfish. She chided herself. What was she going to do if she got there and there was a way home? Would she abandon this world? These people? What if she could help?

I didn’t do this. This isn’t my fight. Images of a child danced at the edge of her mind. The sounds of laughter, the taste of tears. Strong arms holding her, hugs and hands that clasped hers. I have to get back! She fought back tears as the memories faded into the background and her present reality scoffed at her pain. Can I? Can I abandon these people if I can save them? Would I leave them to this fate for the sake of myself? For the sake of love? She sobbed inwardly. The smell of yet more burnt flesh and blood assaulted her senses.

A flash of light ahead of her brought her abruptly back from the macabre thoughts seeking to drown her. The sun glinting off of Cassandra’s plate mail, and the unmistakable hiss of burning air. Darienne stopped short and instinctively reached out and grabbed for Cassandra. It was probably surprise that slowed the warrior’s pace more than any force Darienne had exerted. Cassandra was more than capable of dragging her behind her kicking and screaming… it had been done. Still, it was enough to save them from being crushed and burned by the molten stone and destroyed the bridge directly in front of them.

Darienne tried to pull Cassandra back with her, get distance between them and the far end of the gaping hole that had lately been a solid stone bridge. Cassandra stood frozen for only a moment, torn between shock and horror. Then the concussive force of the blast hit them both, throwing them off balance. Darienne twisted her body to get her hands in front of her, but found the stone beneath her giving way. Bracing herself, she looked for any sign of Cassandra and a means to break her fall. Rubble and bodies eased her downward momentum and she reached for hand holds to further slow her rapid descent to the ice below, then her world went black.

It was once again the cold that brought her back from the blackness. Back from the laughter of a child beneath the screams of burnt bodies and the glowing green eyes of unseen horrors. Cold that bled into her back and her hands. Darienne’s eyes fluttered open. She half expected to find herself back on the stone floor. A stray thought teased at her, funny that she expected the stone and not the forest. Funny she had expected to stay in this all too real dream instead of return to her reality. The thought was drowned out by sudden urgency to move. The need to push away any thought of home.

The ice was slick beneath her and the light armour that Cassandra had given her stuck to the ground. She smirked. Really? Only she’d survive and exploding bridge to die stuck to the ice. Darienne got her hands onto a solid place and began to pull herself up from the slick surface. She looked up and met familiar eyes. She gasped and froze. Those eyes. Again, round with fear and terror, but this time there was no hysteria behind them. No flame of life. No screaming. The soldier. The one that had stabbed her. His lifeless eyes stared through her as his body lay broken and battered amidst the rubble.

Darienne looked away. Her shoulder still ached where his blade had struck. That same blade, shattered amongst the debris. To die with such fear; she glanced back at the still form. His eyes were gray. She hadn’t noticed, despite his close proximity that day. He was young, a fledgling adult. A grown child with gray eyes. She sighed. There wasn’t time for this. There wasn’t time to mourn death. She needed to push forward. She knew all about that. Pushing through fear, pain, and sorrow. She could do that.  
“I am sorry,” she whispered, closed those vacant gray eyes and turned away.

Glancing around, she saw Cassandra pulling herself from the rubble. Relief swept through her. Despite an introduction tainted by fear and anger, Darienne trusted the warrior. Her treatment of her hadn’t been particularly gentle in the beginning, but it had not been cruel. Knowing what had happened and the loss Cassandra and the world had suffered, supposedly at her hands, she understood and hoped that faced with so horrific a situation; she would be able to demonstrate such fairness. That and she was terrified to be left alone in this unfamiliar world. When she thought of it, she knew nothing other than what Cassandra had briefly explained. She felt helpless and Cassandra was the only familiar thing she could hold onto.

Cassandra looked around frantically and spotting Darienne ran over and helped her to her feet.

“Are you –“

A molten chunk of rock hit the frozen river several meters ahead of them, but this time there was no shock wave and it didn’t penetrate the ice. Instead a green phosphorous glow flowed outward and began to bubble. Even as far as they were, the reek of sulphur polluted the air around them. Green motes of light began to rise around it and the ice beneath blackened. The darkness bubbled and hissed, then quivered and burst upward. Darienne, hissed and stepped back nearly falling over the fallen soldier’s body.

“Demons!” Cassandra drew her sword and charged forward, “Stay behind me!”

“Demons?!” Darienne stood transfixed as claws of pitch reached out from the bubbling mass, and pulled up a creature she was sure only existed in the nightmares of HP Lovecraft. Ebony skin, if it was skin at all, was stretched back over the eyeless expanse of its head and seemed to melt like burnt wax over its back. It oozed as it moved toward the charging woman, what looked like molten rock undulating beneath the burnt husk of its torso. It screamed as it raised its emaciated claws to strike her companion. Darienne wanted to shout to Cassandra to watch out, but the woman was clearly well equipped to manage the beast. She moved fluidly, thrusting her great sword and dancing out of reach as the creature screeched its hollow cry with each hit.

Darienne looked around. She would not whimper in the corner. She would not cry while others risked their lives for her. Back home, there had been a time when it was her that stood at the front lines to keep people safe. Not with swords, perhaps… but she would not stand down now. She would not wait for fate to happen. Glancing over the rubble on the ground, there were various weapons among the broken bodies and crumbling stones, none of which were in useful condition. She looked first for a sword, figuring she could at least swing it, and she knew which end to stick in the monsters. There were none intact. Shattered pieces of metal were strewn about, she could only assume that they had been some form of weapon. The bows were shattered. Nothing remotely threatening presented itself. She growled. The smell of sulfur rose up around her and the ice beneath her took on the sickening green glow she’d seen so recently.

Shit.

She began tearing rubble off of bodies to find something, anything she could use to defend herself. Finally, her gaze rested upon a long staff with a dark metal protuberance at the tip and a spike at the base. So be it. She’d played baseball in her youth and watched a lot of martial arts movies. She could swing hard and hopefully keep some distance between them… long enough for Cassandra to dispatch the other one and save her ass. A silent plea, she called on the spirit of Bruce Lee to help her survive this long enough to devote herself to the art of pole-arms for the rest of her days.

She watched the black demon excise itself from wherever it was they came. It wrenched itself from the black ichor, birthed from hell. She didn’t wait for it to fully emerge. Steadying herself, Darienne adjusted her grip on the staff and swung at the protruding head.

She hit it. The sickening crack and thud broke a few of its gnarled black teeth. She also got thrown back a few feet by the burst of energy that shot out of the staff. As she had reached the pinnacle of her swing, violet lightning exploded from the grey metal at the tip and wracked the creature, throwing it back onto the ice.

“Wha- ” Darienne’s shock was short lived. The fiend recovered quickly. A gnarled claw wiped green spittle from its broken mouth and it hissed at her, launching itself in her direction. She didn’t think. She swung the staff over and over, lighting snaking out and paralyzing the demon. Her hands tingled with the static discharge, but it didn’t hurt. In fact, it felt good. Like she was building up a charge. Power thrummed in her chest and she began to force the monster back. It flailed and screeched, a wheezing sound like nails on a chalk board. It made her teeth ache. Finally, she felt she would burst with the buildup within her and she thrust the staff into the demon’s face. A great torrent of fire shot forth and incinerated the beast. Her own triumphant scream was muted by its death throes.

Exhausted, she leaned on the staff and let the built up energy dissipate into the ground beneath her. She could swear she saw a faint ripple of iridescence fade into the ice. Glancing up, she saw Cassandra pull her sword from a second dissolving demon. With unconscious grace, she wrenched the sword from the oozing body and cleaned it in the nearby snow bank before running over to meet her. She did not sheath her weapon.

“Drop your weapon!” The look on her face was a mixture of fear and anger. Darienne was so taken aback that she did. The staff, fell harmlessly to the ground beside her and she raised her hands in a conciliatory gesture.

“Alright! Alright,” she softened her voice, hoping to calm the woman brandishing the sword, “What did I do? I had to defend myself. I –“

“You’re a mage!” fear gave way to incredulity and, Darienne thought, betrayal.

“What? No,” Darienne shook her head frowning, “It’s that staff. It has some kind of power…”

Her voice trailed off when she saw the shock on Cassandra’s face. Shock that slowly morphed into confusion and then suspicion.

“No,” she said, sword held at the ready, “the staff does not just fling magic about because you wave it around. A staff will only work in the hands of a mage. You, are a magic wielder.”

The look on Darienne’s face must have conveyed her ignorance and disbelief beyond a doubt. Cassandra lowered her sword and her gaze softened slightly, though there was a wariness behind her watchful eyes.

“Do they not have mages where you come from? How can you be a magic user and not know it?” there was a hint of incredulity and genuine curiosity in her voice.

“I…” Darienne looked down at her hands. The memory of the warmth that had flowed through her when she’d mimicked the elf’s words. The tingling she’d always felt, or imagined she’d felt, when she’d danced in worship of her Gods and Goddesses beneath full moons. The sense that there was more than she could see. The feeling that she was somehow caged and could reach but not touch that ephemeral thing which she could not name. Her despair that magic was the province of dreams and fairytales.

But there was a mirror that broke her reality, an armoured woman out of her most fantastic imaginings standing before her, the ichor of a demon she’d slain with her own will. Perhaps magic was beyond her reach in that life that was quickly receding into memory. Here though, here, it was reality. As she looked around her, she could feel it; that hum beneath her skin, the silent rhythm in her veins, the energy that flowed through every living thing, the very earth itself. She looked at Cassandra, eyes wide. Wonder, shock and terror roiling beneath their surface. A look almost a kin to sorrow crossed Cassandra’s face and she touched her shoulder.

“I…I did not know,” Darienne’s words faltered again and she took a moment to catch her breath. Finding logic in the situation was beyond her at this point. Again she would have to accept the reality that faced her in this moment, “No. There is no magic where I am from. Certainly not like this. Magic was for children’s stories fairytales. Though, so were demons and elves…”

Her voice trailed off and she looked from her hands back to Cassandra. The woman looked at her for a long moment. Her eyes softening at long last. She picked up the staff and handed it to Darienne before turning towards a steep set of stairs carved into the rock. When she spoke there was a gentle reassurance in her voice and a note of sympathy.

“You should be armed. I cannot always defend you.” She paused and looked back, “It would seem Solace was right, you are far from home.”


	6. a brief introduction...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter...

Dazed, Darienne tied the small bag of potions that Cassandra handed her to one of the loops on her waist wrap. Healing potions she’d called them. They clinked softly as she adjusted her belt. Cassandra had kept her own counsel since their last encounter with demons. Darienne was still trembling with adrenaline. If she stopped to think, stopped to let it sink in, she would probably lose her mind.

_If I haven’t already_. She frowned and clenched her jaw. What if she had? What if this world was simply the concoction of an insane mind and she was really just a jabbering, drooling fool in an asylum? She shook her head and sighed. There were those that would argue that that was the case before this little trip down the rabbit hole. She smirked. _Touché Wachowski brothers… touché_.  

She focussed instead on the staff in her hand. It felt good. Felt right. She didn’t feel awkward carrying it or even wielding it. Though she certainly didn’t fool herself into believing she achieved anything akin to Cassandra’s grace in battle; but it felt… natural. She grinned despite herself and felt the tingle of magic flow up her arm. The staff hummed in her hand, a soft song that made her think of Tibetan singing bowls.

Cassandra tensed and slowed her pace. Darienne froze and began scanning the rocky outcroppings for any sign of movement. Wind echoed in her ears and she tried to focus beyond the rumble of shifting ice swaying pines. There it was. It was quiet, felt distant, yet too clear to be far. The mountainous terrain distorted sound. The thrum of voices and the discordant clang of metal on metal. There was a fight, though Darienne couldn’t say who or where.

“Up ahead,” Casandra nodded toward snow covered stairs carved into the steep embankment across the frozen water, “They’re fighting, they’ll need our help.”

She did not look back.

“Who’s fighting?” Darienne ran to catch up with the woman.

Cassandra called back over her shoulder but the words were lost in the howl of the valley winds. She motioned for Darienne to hurry up as she dashed over the last step and disappeared over the other side. Darienne didn’t have time to guess at the answer as she crested the hill. She’d never seen anything like it – not in reality. Watching battle scenes in the movie theatre cannot possibly prepare you for the horror of the reality.  

The smell of blood and singed flesh brought back a host of memories that she’d thought she’d buried long ago. Flashes of burnt clothes and sterile tables screamed through her mind. Snapshots etched into her memory. The clash of steel and the all too real screams of the present forced those thoughts back into their cages and she revelled in the horror of now. Now, now she could do something about. The present is the only chance you have to control your past.

She had no idea what to do. It was mayhem. Men and women were screaming and dying at the hands of demons. The air reeked of sulphur and death. She was frozen and ashamed of it. Willing herself to move she tried to focus on one demon and lock out the rest, just enough to regain control of her own body.

The prickling of magical energy worked its way up her spine and she took comfort in that. She was not helpless. Not anymore. A soldier fell beneath the swing of one of the black demons. Darienne watched as she fumbled for her sword. She wouldn’t be able to bring it up in time. Words echoed in her ears,

“Somebody, help me!”

A sigil formed in Darienne’s mind and its luminescent markings etched the air in front of her. Indigo arcs of lightning burst from the symbol and she slammed her staff on the ground trying to keep from being thrown back by the force. She swung her staff over and over, fire and lightning bleeding from it, from her. She didn’t stop until the beast crumbled into ash. Then she found another demon and another.

The Mark on her hand began to burn and she looked up long enough to see a small tear in the air above her. It bled green light, the same green that her dreams of late had been tinted with.

“The rift, seal it! Quickly!”

There was barely time to register those words when a strong slender hand grabbed her wrist and thrust her marked hand toward the strange light. A pulling sensation forced the air from her lungs and she watched as the mark seemed to reach out to the glow. The wisps of light connected and Darienne was overwhelmed by the hum of a thousand voices and memories. Worlds innumerable all collided and coexisted within her, within this faint green haze, all at once. She was everything and nothing for that brief moment of connection, then with a thunderous crack, the harmony was shattered. Realities and worlds were once again separated.  Shocked, she stared at her hand and the now empty air.

“It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

It was a statement. The deep soft voice held none of the curiosity or surprise the words implied. It was the first voice she heard when she woke on the cold stone floor. It felt like a lifetime ago. After everything that had happened, she was beginning to believe that it was. She looked at the elf. His angular face was ageless and stoic. Dark eyes that hid more than he saw, searched her face. When she looked at him, the echoes of those worlds she touched so briefly pained her. What he saw, she didn’t know, but a fleeting sorrow shadowed his eyes before he hid it once again behind stoicism and affected apathy.

“Good to know,” a rumbling voice, more smirk than mirth broke through the overwhelming fog forming in Darienne’s head, “and here I thought we’d be ass deep in demons forever.”

Darienne turned and Cassandra muttered under her breath.

“Varric Tethras,” a handsome dwarf grinned at her, holding out a blood soaked glove. Darienne smiled and accepted his hand. His was the first friendly face she’d seen. There was no fear in his eyes when he looked at her and that alone made her feel less like a pariah, “Rogue, storyteller and occasionally, unwelcome tag along.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes and snorted in disgust. Darienne, cocked a curious brow at him and he winked.

“My name is Solas,” the elf stepped up and offered his own hand, “if there are to be introductions. I’m glad to see you still live.”


	7. Fear and Loathing...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darienne and her new companions make their way through the mine, despite the disappearance of the scouts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long delay posting! Muggle life dragged me kicking and screaming away from all my favorite things... after numerous skirmishes, I do believe that I have wrangled it back into relative compliance and shall resume writing and various other bits of mischief.

Cassandra wrenched her blade out of the last of the three demons. The slurping, sucking noise mixed with the lingering odor of sulfur made Darienne slightly nauseous. How many had they killed making their way through this abandoned mine? She’d lost count. The warrior turned her dark gaze on Darienne as she sheathed her sword. She was still shaking with adrenaline and magic, but nodded at her companion. Swallowing, she looked down at the entrails of the one at her own feet. Green ichor oozed around her boot. She stepped back, revulsion curling her lip.

 

“Yeah,” Varric appeared beside her from who knew where, “I don’t blame you. That shit’s a bitch to get off leather.”

 

Despite the grizzly sight at her feet, Darienne grinned at him.

 

“Chest hair easier to clean then?”

 

“Ha!” He patted Bianca and winked, “The trick is not to get within splatter range.”

 

“Advice it would be wise for you to heed,” Solas placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, warmth flowing over her, easing the pain of the scratches she hadn’t admitted to getting during this skirmish or the last two, “You are new to your magic and clearly not familiar with physical combat.”

 

“I agree,” Cassandra stood at a distance, her eyes scouting the dark passageways for the next threat, “That mark on your hand may be the key to closing the breach and you should not be putting it in jeopardy carelessly.”

 

Darienne nodded, heat prickling on her chest and rising to her cheeks. She had no idea what she was doing. She was scared – terrified, if she was honest with herself. Everything was unfamiliar to her, even herself now. She’d meant it when she’d promised Cassandra that she would help seal the tear in the sky. The magnitude of that promise was only now beginning to hit her.

 

Varric nudged her and brought her out of her dark musings. She smiled, trying for nonchalant but the sadness in the dwarf’s eyes told her she likely managed lost and pathetic more than brave.

 

“How about we keep all of you alive,” Varric gestured at her whole body, grinning wolfishly, “Chuckles and I have your back. Besides, no one else laughs at my jokes so you’re good for my ego… this is a rough crowd.”

 

She smiled gratefully at him and stepped over the oozing pile of entrails to stand next to Cassandra. The woman glanced sideways at her and nodded. Darienne closed her eyes and felt the stale air in the cavern settle on her shoulders. The weight of lives. The weight of the world, this world. A breath of cool air kissed her cheek and she opened her eyes. It came from the tunnel to the right, that was likely the way out. She looked at Cassandra,

 

“This way.”

 

She walked into the tunnel, leaving her startled companions behind her. Grinning, she allowed herself the fantasy that Gandalf would be proud.

 

They’d trudged some distance and the hazy light of day began to penetrate the sullen shadows of the mine. She was hungry and tired. To make things worse, she was also suffering from a sense of inadequacy she couldn’t shake. Five more demons and one nightmarishly huge spider had been recently dispatched and her hands still trembled with the magical discharge. She made a conscious effort to be more aware of her surroundings, taking cues from Solas. She thought she’d acquitted herself quite well and had certainly contributed to their victory. Still she felt painfully awkward and very much like the weak link.

 

“There is no time to tarry,” Cassandra’s voice echoed in the stone chamber, “you chose this path and the longer we take, the more soldiers die.”

 

“Thank you Cassandra,” Darienne shot back, her frustration and fear coming to a head, “I am aware that lives are being lost as we take this afternoon stroll. I am also aware that I am not a particularly well-versed mage or fighter – hence this quieter route over the more direct one. As you have pointed out, more than once, I am not battle-worthy – so this route seemed the wisest choice considering my left hand needs to arrive at your Temple of Sacred Ashes – however inconveniently, still attached to the rest of me.”

 

“I…” Cassandra turned a shocked look back to her. Darienne was beyond caring. She’d been a prisoner, a captive and then told to make strategic decisions to go to a destroyed temple and close the tear in the sky that she evidently fell out of. All to try to save their world. All to likely destroy her only hope of returning to her own. All to likely die doing so. Darienne snarled. She’d be damned if she’d be made to feel guilty about any of it.

 

Pushing past the dumbstruck woman, Darienne rounded a corner and found herself at the mouth of the cave. Cool mountain air rushed at her, blowing wisps of hair into her face. The faint echo of raised voices reached her ears; two low and smooth, one higher and anxious. _Fuck it._ Darienne grimaced and left them to argue about her. Varric was likely the only one to see her beyond her hand anyways. Solas was kind, but she got the distinct feeling that she was more like a scientist’s favourite lab rat than anything akin to a friend. Cassandra, well, Cassandra was too angry and scared to see beyond the mark that branded her. She understood, she supposed – but it didn’t seem to have occurred to any of them that she was a sentient being and that she… mattered.

 

Sulfur rode on the wind and the pungent odour brought her back to reality. The ground in front of her began to boil black sludge and the claws of a demon grasped for solid rock. All her anger, frustration and fear bubbled up inside her. _Fuck them. Fuck them all._

 

The grotesque maw emerged and let forth its customary screech. Darienne screamed back, feeling the magic rise again within her. This time it felt different. Heat flowed through her and she let her fear and anger fuel it. Her veins caught fire and she released it in the face of the demon spawn. A sigil of flame encircled her outstretched hand and coalesced into a bolt of white hot flame. The creature screamed as the fire engulfed it. Waves of heat rolled over it as it writhed, skin blistering and falling away from its face; sizzling mucous and body fluids boiling it alive.

 

The magic rode hard through her and she relinquished herself to it. Lightning danced over her skin and the now familiar sigil etched the air in front of her. She held it until it threatened to overwhelm her, then released the charge. Three silvered tongues of lightning burst from her and turned what was left of the mass of undulating puss and claws into ash. A cursory glance of her surroundings confirmed that there were no other demons. Refocussing her energy, she released the magic and spent fury back into the ground to dissipate. Exhaustion quickly followed.

 

Dropping to one knee, she took a moment to catch her breath, adrenaline ebbing. Strong gentle fingers rested on her shoulder. He smelled of parchment and memories; she found it at once comforting and unsettling. Solas.

 

“Your magic grows quickly. It is impressive.” He spoke softly, for her ears alone, “Do not doubt my confidence in you or your ability to do what must be done. Do not doubt Cassandra either. It is fear of her own inadequacies, not yours of which she speaks.”

 

Darienne reached up and touched his hand, a silent acknowledgment of his words and gratitude for his well-meaning placations. He was the only one who knew her secret, though he knew very little of it. He knew that she was from further than most would imagine, but the extent of his knowledge, she couldn’t guess. Standing, she offered him a smile and a respectful nod before turning to Cassandra,

 

“We’d best hurry.”

 

Cassandra was looking at the demon’s ashes swirling in the mountain winds. After a moment she nodded and looked a Darienne, jaw clenched. She drew a breath as though to speak, but remained silent and simply nodded again. There was a grudging respect in the gesture – though not yet an offered apology. Pride and fear were chasms still too great to cross. It was a small victory. One Darienne was prepared to celebrate with quiet grace.

 

Their restive truce was interrupted by the static crackle that had come to hail the opening of a small rift. A dim green glow penetrated the swath of trees ahead of them. Darienne’s hand crackled as green veins of lightning shot up her arm. She winced and bit her lip though the pain. Tasting copper in her mouth she managed to keep upright, though barely. It was quick and sharp, leaving her entire arm throbbing and a burning ache across her chest and abdomen. She nearly vomited. Cassandra moved to help her but Darienne waved her away with a weak smile. Even so pained, she was well aware that the peace and respect between she and Cassandra was fragile. The sounds of screaming and sword song rose above the hum of the new rift. Cassandra and Darienne gasped in unison –

 

“The scouts!”


	8. Ashes and Ruin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darienne and her companions reach the Temple of Sacred Ashes. She is forced to face herself and the reality that she may not survive to fulfill her promise to Cassandra.

Bodies. There were so many of them. Some strewn around, broken and tattered – macabre rag dolls among the detritus. Others, others were immortalized screams; reaching, gasping mounds of burnt flesh, their life’s liquids hardened shells, a perverse lacquer preserving in every detail the agony of their last moments. The smell of ash and charred hair still lingered heavily in this place, despite the mountain winds and the passage of time. Death breathed here.

 

Darienne choked back a sob. She’d seen death, more than her share she’d thought. It had been her job after all – to record and investigate in meticulous detail the atrocities that humans were capable of inflicting upon one another. Photographs, fingerprints, chemicals, blood splatter, autopsies – all to determine whether death be the result of true malevolence or the sad, unforgiving reality of negligence or the heartbreaking and sorrowful outcome of nothing but poor judgement. Forensics was supposed to help her save the world, her world. But she’d failed. She hadn’t been strong enough to endure. She’d had to leave. She’d had to abandon those she could have saved, could have given justice to… all to save herself.

 

Selfish.

 

None of it, no nightmare that had haunted her or memory that plagued her waking days, could have prepared her for this. She’d seen death, but she’d never walked along side it; feeling its acrid breath caress her skin, its damp cold whisper touch her flesh. Everywhere she turned death flaunted its mastery over life. Everywhere she looked souls had been taken, wantonly and without mercy. In her ears death teased her – _You thought you could run from me? You thought that once I touched you, you could escape? I am here. There is no world you can run to that I cannot find you. I will always be here. Look upon me and know that I AM INEVITABLE._

 

Darienne shook her head. No. It was not truly death that spoke to her. Death was not the enemy. The inevitable yes, but it was neutral. No, death did not truly frighten her. It was the monsters that used death as their weapon that frightened her but more than that, it was her inability to truly stop them. Perhaps that was at the core, what had made her jump into the mirror. So much death and she once again placed in a position to stop monsters from wielding it. It was not death, or even the monsters that made her jump into the mirror. She wanted to shy away from this train of thought, but it hounded her and would not be silent. No, it had been fear. The fear that no matter what she gave – it would never be enough. There would always be more monsters than heroes and she had never been a hero. She’d just been her and she hadn’t been strong enough. In running from the very thing that she’d thought would break her – that did break her – she had arrived in her own personal hell. How could she possibly hope to save this world?

 

She glanced at her companions. Their sorrow and fear was palpable. Cassandra had known many of the souls that littered this landscape. Darienne closed her eyes. She’d failed her own world, she could not fail this one.

 

***

 

It was colossal. Darienne shook beneath the thrum of power emanating from the tear above her. The air quivered and the haze of green fog coalesced and took the shape of her memory’s echo. The all too familiar cry for help stung her ears and reverberated through the crater that remained of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

 

The woman, the Divine hung before them, lightning and fog playing out the macabre story of this place’s memory. Darienne watched, transfixed as her own peripheral memory was replayed from the other side of the mirror. The same mirror, laced with the same lightning that had reached out to touch her in the forest; she watched as her own terrified visage looked through upon this scene. Then memories collided as the Divine screamed for aid and she burst though the mirror. Darienne sank to her knees. She knew how this would end, but she had no memory.

 

His voice rumbled over the place, hollow but with remembered power. The green haze gave no form to the voice, but shadow hung over his words. Darienne watched as the voice demanded her death. As the Divine lashed out desperately with the last of her strength. As she, herself launched toward the Divine and the glowing orb that the Divine had kicked from the shadow’s grasp with a final act of bravery. She watched as her hand, her left hand, closed over the orb. The mirror screamed and exploded, with it, her world. Then the orb and the Temple’s memory exploded. For the briefest of moments, Darienne found herself once again lost in the dark haze of the Fade. A woman made of light reached for her. The Fade, the rift above her. This is where she fell from. The Fade…

 

Searing agony wrenched her back to her current reality. Her hand burned, veins of the Fade bleeding up her arm and over her neck and chest. Tendrils reached out from the rift towards her. The Fade meant to consume her. She could feel it drawing her into it. That sense of worlds and realities colliding, the feeling that she was losing herself – being absorbed into the fabric of these truths. She would cease to exist and yet, as part of the Fade, exist as all things. Part of her wanted to relinquish the incongruence of individuality and simply join the harmony of being part of the natural order of existence. She could feel her own world brush past her, a droplet in an ocean. It would be easier.

 

The Divine’s cries echoed in her head. The shadow’s threats rumbled in her heart. No, she refused to give in to the false promise of peace that oblivion offered. No yet.

 

Shaking her head, she looked at the great pulsating fissure in the sky. She vaguely registered Cassandra’s shouts of demons and raised her hand, calling down the Fade. She would not let it take her – or them. Gritting her teeth, Darienne released her hold on the Mark and watched as the Fade ebbed from her open hand and joined with the Rift. Instead of forcing it back though, she bayed it open. She felt it sigh in her mind.

 

*** 

 

Lightning arched from her staff and incinerated the demon. Taking advantage of this brief reprieve, Darienne wiped the liquid from her eyes – blood, sweat, ichor – she didn’t know or care. A quick glance told her there was no direct threat in her vicinity, the others however, were facing off with the pride demon, buying her time. She watched helplessly as its lightning whip flayed yet another soldier alive. They had no way to penetrate its armour.

 

Glancing around her again, she called the power of the rift in her hand. She felt herself again touch that space of nothing and everything, the eye of the storm. Thrusting her hand to the air she let that part of herself reach out to the rift and knit it together, tendrils binding it strand by strand.

 

The pride demon fell to its knees, her companions taking full advantage of its vulnerability. Darienne gritted her teeth through the pain, then pulled herself back, lest she get caught up in the Fade.

 

The earth at her feet began to bubble. She wasted no time pummeling the emergent demon with fire and lightning. It collapsed into a quivering mass of steaming gore just as a cheer rose up from above the din of the Fade in her ears. The demon fell. It was done. She swallowed and looked at the exultant souls believing themselves safe. She tried to focus on their smiles. The mark called her. Smiling sadly, she knew that there was the very real possibility that this was the image she’d leave this world with. It served as a poignant reminder that despite her frailty and fear, there were heroes. Life and the human spirit were resilient. Facing the rift once again, Darienne held up her hand and sent everything she had into closing the rift.

 

Brilliant light filled her vision, the hum of ageless voices became the melody of time’s song, growing louder and louder until it reached a crescendo. Silence followed. Blessed, peaceful silence. Brilliance gave way to darkness and the warmth of solitude encircled her. Then nothing…


	9. The price of Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen struggles to keep his charges alive as the prisoner takes the mountain pass.

Spittle flew, with not a few gnarled black teeth, as his shield crushed the demon’s face. His sword making quick, grizzly work of the rest. The panicked scream behind him cut short any momentary reprieve he may have bought himself. Recruit Whittle’s panic quickly dissolved into shuddering terror as a rage demon bore down on his fallen form. Even at this distance Cullen could see that the silver gleam of Whittle’s sword was beyond the man’s reach. Growling, he launched himself through the melee, shield high and sword tucked low to take advantage of his momentum. The battle around him blurred, the demon looming over the terrorized the fallen man coming into sharp focus. Whittle’s scream was cut short as Cullen smashed into the demon. He couldn’t know if he made it on time, but contemplating that would have to wait. He let the fury ride him and used the momentum of his charge, extending the force through the thrust of his sword. The gurgling death throes of the decapitated demon were of little comfort as he spared a glance at the still form of his fallen recruit. He growled as he took stock of the ongoing battle around him. Grateful for this briefest of moments, he bent to examine Whittle’s wounds.

 

Fresh gashes tore through the fallen recruits leather jerkin and blood pooled in the scarlet ravines left by the demon’s claws. But, he yet lived, his shallow breaths gave Cullen hope that today he’d saved at least one from the Maker’s call. Calling for a healer, he stood guard as they carried the unconscious man to the relative safety of their post behind the lines. He sighed, Whittle would carry those scars for the rest of his life, but a life he yet had – for now.

 

Cullen cleaned his sword of noxious gore then surveyed the ongoing siege of demons. Wave after wave of the terrors kept even these few seasoned warriors on the defensive. The recruits and less experienced were paying an even higher price. The dead and wounded were beginning to outnumber the living. Whoever this prisoner Cassandra had spoken of was supposed to be the key to closing that Maker forsaken tear in the sky. The echo of another demon’s death thralls pierced the din of battle followed, too closely, by the scream of yet another of his charges. Cullen snarled and tore once again into the ranks of the Maker cursed demons.

 

The head of yet another demon fell to the sharpened edge of his shield. They fell around him en-masse and he found his footing jeopardized by their slick entrails. He needed to reposition and quickly, one slip and his disadvantage may be too costly. The kneeling recruit to his right struggled to maintain her grip on her shield. It was the only thing keeping her alive at the moment. Her sword arm lay limp at her side. Cullen groaned with the effort as he disembowelled another of the wretches. He wouldn’t get to her in time. He fought furiously, praying to Andraste for her to hold out just a little longer. He recognized her, her freckles visible even through the blood and grime. She was from a village to the north – young and eager to stand for something, memories of the last blight still haunting her eyes. She’d have been but a child then.

 

He watched helplessly as the light left her, that unseen desire to fight, to live, ebbed from her even as he stood a hands breadth from being able to aid her. She gave up. The demon above her felt it too, fed on it, its hideous chortle of victory stung his ears. He slashed another in half and glanced around for anything solid enough to allow him to get a decent foot hold. Maybe, just maybe, he could make it.

 

Green light blinded him. The rush of words and screams assaulted him. He was paralyzed. There was nothing but the light and the ever rising sound of screaming. Just as he thought his ears might burst, silence exploded around him. His vision returned and he found himself as he had been, mid step.

 

There was no sound, save the low moan of the wind through the pass. The burning smell of sulfur that had dominated the battle field these past days was most notable in its absence. Mastering himself, he prepared for an attack – none came. There was only stillness around him. The demons were gone – as though they never existed. There was no movement but the slow, stupefied rustle of his men, as though waking from a nightmare.

 

They simply vanished – no evidence they’d ever been except the piles of ash that dissipated in the soft breeze. The shock wore off quickly as a tentative cry of victory rung out from the front lines. Then another and another until the mountains rumbled with victory. Cullen remained cautiously optimistic. Cassandra’s plan, it seemed, had worked. He glanced at empty eyes, open and sightless in a small round, freckled face. Bending down, he shut them gently and retrieved her service medal. He would see to it that her family knew of her bravery. Looking at the still forms littering the ground around him, he hoped by Andraste’s ass, this prisoner was worth it.


	10. The unquiet of undeath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darienne is given a moment to breathe and in that moment the reality of her loss overwhelms her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - it does touch on the loss of a child. I am not entirely sure if i'll be keeping this chapter. I don't know that this is a direction I intend to pursue.

Softness. It was the first time in recent memory that consciousness came for her gently. Light eased its way into her mind and warmth soothed her aching body. It had been so long since warmth had flowed freely through her limbs, she paused a moment to be sure she wasn’t simply loosing herself in vague remembrances of the feeling. Venturing a breath, she inhaled. The burn of wood-smoke was spiced with herbs and flowers that though unfamiliar to her, held notes of home. The small pang of sorrow that she clearly wasn’t ‘home’ was washed aside by the reassurance that she yet lived. A passing thought touched her, the human drive to survive, to live, no matter the circumstance still burned in her. She wanted to live, even if it meant never seeing home again. She inhaled the soothing air again and revelled, if only a moment in the fact that she had survived. Whatever she faced, she hadn’t given in. She hadn’t let the Fade take her.

 

Hope filled her. What she had done must have worked. She must have managed to close the tear in the sky. Gingerly flexing her left hand, she sighed. It was stiff, but the pain was gone. She opened her eyes and found herself staring at the thatch and beams of a roof. No more dark stone ceilings, their height lost in the shadows. No more faded fabric of a hasty tent, wind taunting its flimsy structure. The pleasant crackle of a fire touched her ears and her senses began to coax her back to full consciousness.

 

The creek of a door and soft steps of quiet feet brought her out of her reverie. Darienne sat up, a little too quickly. Her world spun a moment as a wave of dizziness threatened to overwhelm her. A soft gasp and the clatter of glass on the ground dissipated the last of the fogginess from her head. A slender elf, clearly distressed, kneeled before her.

 

“Oh, I didn’t know you were awake,” her meek voice stammered, “I’m sorry.”

 

Darienne blinked and took in her surroundings. It was a small wooden cottage, one open space with a fireplace and various sundries on small tables and shelves. Memories of the Pride demon rushed back to Darienne, the tear, the veil… but there was no sense of urgency in the elf’s behaviour – it was more akin to genuine surprise and… awe.

 

“The Breach –“ Darienne tried to stand, but found her legs still weak. The elf fairly sprang to her feet and began backing away.

 

“The Breach is still in the sky,” wide eyes watched Darienne with equal parts wariness and respect, “but you did close it.”

 

“So, we’re safe,” Darienne dared hope.

 

“That’s what they say, my lady,” The young elf clumsily bent to gather her dropped bottle, “Lady Cassandra would want to see you, right away.”

 

“Wait,” Darienne reached out to the clearly nervous girl, “Who are you? What happened?”

 

Slender fingers worried at the buttons on her vest as she stumbled towards the door.

 

“I am but a humble servant,” she stuttered and bowed as her hand grasped the knob, “You’d best speak with Lady Cassandra – at once, she said, at once.”

 

Darienne sighed as the anxious creature left. So they were safe, at least for now. She lay back on the bed. She hadn’t failed – not entirely. She shook her head, just because it remained in the sky, didn’t mean it was still a threat. Though, she rubbed her eyes willing the visions of the destroyed temple from her mind, it did not guarantee that the matter was finished. Darienne’s lips twitched. It would seem she’d been elevated from reviled prisoner to ‘my lady’. What that entailed, she didn’t know but she was sure she’d find out soon enough.

 

Pondering the potential implications, she stretched and sat at the edge of the bed looking around the small cottage. The furnishings were simple and sturdy, clearly handmade – which further enforced the reality of her circumstances. There was a neatly folded pile of clothes at the end of the bed which made her startlingly aware of the fact that she, herself was only in a thin cotton shift. Her skin and hair were cleaned of the blood, grime and gods know what else. There was no sign of the gore soaked armour she’d been wearing. She had no sense of having been violated, but the knowledge that her prone body had been stripped and washed – everywhere – left her feeling queasy.

 

Determined not to dwell on the details of her current state of dress, she sorted through the clothing and got dressed. The fit was amazing. Marvelling at the precision with which the garments formed to her shape and their comfort, she forgave the seemingly endless number of buttons and belts. Glancing around, she managed to find a small mirror. A sharp pang of loss touched her as she glanced unseeing at its smooth, reflective surface. It was not her reflection she saw, but the shattering of the mirror that had brought her into this world. Her world was lost to her. Her family.

 

Sadness overwhelmed her. There had been no time to acknowledge her loss. Always running, fighting… surviving. Now, in this quiet moment of solitude, she cried. Choking sobs burned her lungs, sorrow stole her words and blurry visions played behind her closed eyes. Sophie, her beautiful little Sophie, dark curls bouncing around her cherubic face. Aaron, with his quick laugh and strong dusky arms that would never hold her again. Her family was lost to her. They were gone.

 

No, they were not gone. It was she that was gone from them. She, that had abandoned them when she let her own sense of failure, her own pride, lure her into that mirror. What had she hoped for? Heroism? Martyrdom? All she had accomplished, all that she’d left them with was… nothing. There would be no answers for them. She’d doomed them to the pain of not knowing, of questioning every knock at the door, every phone call. They would wait, and she would never return. She would never return because she’d loved them so very much, but somewhere inside, in that darkest part of her, she’d loved her pain more. She must have. It was the only sense she could make of so rash an action.

 

She choked, then vomited her self-loathing into the nearest unoccupied bowl. Wiping her face, she shook her head. No. She hadn’t committed suicide. She couldn’t have known what would happen when she answered that call for help. She’d simply reacted. She couldn’t have truly believed what was happening, she still didn’t. Using a clean cloth and the water in the basin on the table, Darienne cleaned herself, the damp fabric doing little to cleanse the guilt she felt. What she told herself didn’t matter now. They would live, yes, but no matter the justification for her actions, she had abandoned them. Her only solace was knowing that they were strong. They had each other. Darienne looked in the small hand mirror. There was no sign of her collapse in her face, save a little redness around her eyes. They would be fine without her.  They would live and know love again. Love, she was certain, that had to be better than hers.

 

Drained and hollow, Darienne looked again into the small mirror. She hadn’t been granted death. Not yet. Perhaps this was to be a chance – a chance to at least in some way earn forgiveness or atonement. Perhaps if she could save this world and all these lives she could forgive herself. Perhaps.

 

She cleaned her face again and again, tearing away at her own guilt and reinforcing her determination never to fail another again, never to succumb to fear again. Glancing around, she noticed a small collection of makeup jars. Cassandra had used similar and even shared them with her in her less hostile moments. Darienne availed herself of the cosmetic armour, taking comfort in the simplicity of a familiar ritual. Dark smoky liner and long lashes framed large cognac orbs with shards of emerald hiding in their depths, pain buried deep beneath the surface. A skill she’d perfected long ago.

 

She favoured herself with a small smile, the corners of her lips hinting at a light heartedness without the commitment of a full smile. She brushed her dark auburn hair, noting the soft strawberry streaks that the sun and air of this place must have painted her with. She was surprised at how long it had gotten. It had barely touched her shoulders… now it brushed the swell of her breasts. Gods – how long had she been here? Swallowing and keeping herself firmly in check, Darienne pulled her hair back and found a clip to secure it. The usual strands rebelled and hung wistfully around the frame of her face. Thus armed for whatever Lady Cassandra had in store for her, Darienne walked out the door to face her future in Thedas.  


	11. A dream far from home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and the other advisors finally meet the Herald

The Herald of Andraste. That’s what the men were calling her. Cullen grimaced. He could not deny that her appearance was exactly what they needed in the face of this tragedy. He wasn’t certain she was sent by the Maker, in fact he was more inclined toward suspicion. It was an excellent and effective tactic for an adversary to create a problem then surreptitiously provide the solution. He’d seen it used – to devastating effect. The fact that Cassandra told him that this ‘Herald’ had denied any holy origin did little to dissuade him. Humility was sweet bait indeed.

 

To her credit, he mused as he made his way to the war room, he’d heard personal stories from some of his soldiers. Apparently she’d risked herself for not a few of them and rescued several scouts trapped by a fade-rift in the pass. To hear them tell it, she’d shone like the sun and rained the Maker’s fury down upon the monsters. He shook his head, fearful of the blind adoration people were already conjuring up for this supposed Herald. It took more than beauty and mage summoned parlour tricks to save the world.

 

Leliana and Josephine were waiting for him. Josephine’s expression wavered between nervous excitement and detached curiosity. He respected the challenge she faced maneuvering them all through what he only imagined could be a political minefield.  Leliana gave him the slightest nod, her pale eyes withholding any opinion on the matter. He nodded in return, noticing for the first time, a tension in her shoulders. This Herald it seemed, had the Nightengale on edge. Not a particularly good omen he thought. Sighing, he took his place between them and waited for Cassandra and her Herald.

 

It was not Cassandra or her supposed Herald that walked in. Solas glided in nodding to all three of them in turn. Cullen managed to hide his grimace and nod at the apostate elf in return. He respected the elf; though he didn’t trust him. His magic was stable and Cullen had no sense of possession around him, it was his obsession and unusually vast knowledge of the Fade that set him on edge. The briefest tightening of Leliana’s lips as she nodded told him that he was not alone in his dis-ease.

 

“It is good to see you Solas,” Leliana purred, “What, may I ask, brings you to the counsel table?”

 

Solas smiled solemnly.

 

“I came at the behest of your Herald. It seems she believes that my knowledge will be of some use at this meeting.”

 

Cullen furrowed his brows and noticed Josephine’s shoot upwards. Leliana only blinked.

 

“I see,” she said and turned cool eyes back to the door.

 

They sat in silence a few minutes more, each absorbed in their own musings. The echo of footsteps and faint laughter emanated from the Chantry hall. He could hear Cassandra’s voice, commanding even in mirth. The other, soft, quiet and clearly feminine. He rested his hand on the pommel of his sword and waited to meet the Herald of Andraste.

 

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but she wasn’t it. The woman that walked in stood just above Cassandra’s shoulders, her frame slender and curvaceous. Auburn hair tumbled past her shoulders, grazing the swell of her ample breasts. Straight shoulders gave way to slender arms and small delicate hands. Hands it was hard to imagine raining fire and lightning down on demon spawn. Her small waist was emphasized by the soft curve of her round hips and shapely legs. A glance at her face and he understood all too well the fawning that the soldiers had been prone to. Striking hazel eyes peered out beneath beautifully arched brows. The kind he imagined could convey all manner of emotion with a simple lift. Beautiful lips of the softest petal pink made him wonder if their softness and colour were true to other parts of that luscious body. A straight aquiline nose and high cheekbones balanced her lovely heart-shaped face. Every fantasy he’d never admitted to just walked into the war room. Maker’s breath.

 

He heard Cassandra introduce him and his title. He nodded and smiled, mumbling something about Inquisition troops. He caught Leliana’s lips twitching and the all too knowing gaze of the apostate elf. Grinding his teeth, he growled inwardly. He’d seen his share of beautiful women – she was no different. He let his annoyance with himself calm the heat he’d felt and focused on what was happening.

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” she smiled and bowed to them, “but I’m not entirely sure why I’m here.”

 

The discussion waxed and waned, Cullen watched the Herald as she thoughtfully accepted her role with the Inquisition. Her apprehension was obvious and try as he might, he could not detect any deceit in her words or actions. She asked intelligent questions and seemed genuinely concerned for the situations outside the sphere of her personal role. A glance at Leliana showed him that she’d reached a similar conclusion – her wariness slowly becoming curiosity. Josephine was the one to bring about the question that had been preying on their minds since the Herald stepped out of the Rift.

 

“Darienne,” Josephine remarked, “an unusual name. From whence do you come? Your colouring and features appear Orlesian, or perhaps the Free Marches? What is your family name? We must contact them to let them know you are safe.”

 

“Indeed.” Leliana smiled. Cullen knew a honeyed trap when he saw one. If the Nightengale didn’t know – or suspected deception – then, well, he knew she’d been too good to be true.

 

Sorrow crossed her delicate visage before resolution set her jaw and she glanced at the silent apostate in the corner. At his nod, she bit her lower lip and took a deep breath.

 

“Darienne was not a particularly common name where I am from either Lady Josephine. As for my family,” grief once again touched her features as she glanced again at the elf, “That may prove significantly more difficult…”

 

The discussion ran well into the night, Darienne offering what knowledge she could regarding the strange mirror. His impression was that she was being truthful and her well-masked fear was genuine. Leliana asked question after question, some cloaked to test her veracity, others genuine curiosity. Darienne was candid and eventually even the Nightengale appeared convinced. Solas explained, in his vague was, the mirrors – eluvians they were called – and how they were tools of ancient elven magic thought long since lost. Darienne added that she had never seen or heard of its like in her world – even in legend. She was quick to qualify that statement with one advising them that she was by no means an authority on such things and that her world was very vast with many cultures and many legends. She spoke of the fact that Thedas and its peoples were akin to legends and fairytales in her world. Magic, elves, dwarves and demons mere children’s stories.

 

He marvelled as he watched her calmly lay out the events she’d experienced, admitting some gaps in her memory. She didn’t recall her time in the Fade, only vague impressions. Her time in the cells of Haven’s Chantry was also only brief intermittent memories. When conversation turned to her life before the eluvian, she became quiet, her pain and sadness palpable. Yes, she’d had a family, but they were, in her words, lost to her now. She smiled wistfully as them and said that even in the short time since the rift had been sealed, her memory of that life was beginning to fade. She assured them that she was committed to assisting the Inquisition. They, all of them, by tacit agreement decided that it would never again be spoken of, unless Darienne chose to share. Only once did she look at Solas and ask, very quietly, if he thought that after they’d obtained enough power to have her properly heal the Rift in the sky, there might be a way for her to return home. With more compassion than Cullen thought the elf capable of, he lay a hand on her shoulder, stating that each eluvian had only one destination, unique to itself. The one she’d come through, that led to her world, had been destroyed with the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

 

Cullen’s heart hurt for her in that moment. He’d survived horrors beyond imagining; but his world, this world, flawed and terrifying as it may be, was his. She’d looked at Solas, then at each of them in turn, beautiful eyes dry and steady. She nodded. Cullen knew that any tears she shed would be in solitude.

 

“It would seem, then, that this is my home now,” she pulled in a breath to steady her voice, then smiled apologetically at Josephine, “I’m afraid you’re going to have your work cut out for you.”

 

Leliana stepped forward and took Darienne’s hand.

 

“We will figure something out,” she smiled. Beneath what he prayed was genuine concern, he could see her calculating how to use this to their best advantage.

 

Cullen was at something of a loss. What does one say to a woman whose whole world was suddenly wrenched away? They were all here, the Inquisition was here, because their world was on the brink – but hers’ hers was simply… gone. All he could manage was,

 

“If you need anything, I’ll be here.”

 

Those lovely eyes looked at him and she smiled,

 

“Thank you Commander, I appreciate that.”


	12. A tentative smile...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darienne extends and offer of friendship but are either of them prepared for where that will lead?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plagued by writers block... argh! Hoping to shake things loose! Thanks for being so patient!

Darienne had taken to sitting at the end of the dock just outside of Haven. The sun glinted off the frozen lake and the din of Cullen’s recruits echoed pleasantly over the rock faces. Shifting, she grimaced, trying to get comfortable. Her whole body ached. She’d never fully appreciated the trials of pioneers of Earth’s history; now her body served as a punishing reminder that the convenience of cars, bikes – running shoes were truly luxuries taken for granted. Stretching and attempting to massage away the ache in her lower back she made a mental note to make the search for the horse master the top priority on their next campaign through the Hinterlands. She closed her eyes and smiled, despite the twinge in her neck. It was beautiful, this place. Thedas. She let the name roll over in her mind, tasting it as she would a new wine. It was home now. Glancing up at the sky, framed by snow-capped peaks, she realized she’d never seen a sky so blue as this. It felt like… home.

 

Unwilling to dwell on that simple revelation, she glanced at the figures across the lake. From this distance, they seemed engaged in some sort of dance. She rubbed her hands together for warmth and made up her mind to get a closer look. The idea of wielding steel intimidated her. She’d tried, when no one was watching, to copy a few of the maneuvers she’d seen the recruits using to practice. The blade had felt heavy and awkward in her hand and her feet seemed uncooperative at best. It hadn’t been pretty. The staff felt so much better, which was saying something, she grinned at herself as she shimmied down the slick rocks and onto the ice. Magic felt so natural, though she held no illusions that she was any kind of battle mage. She could see it in the expressions of her companions. She knew it. Unfortunately she didn’t get to be a recruit, she got to learn on the job.

 

Shaking off those self-deprecating thoughts she let herself focus on gliding over the ice. The next venture was to be up north to the Storm Coast. A man by the name of Krem had approached them with a proposition; a mercenary band – the Chargers and their leader ‘The Iron Bull’ were interested in a meeting with her. Leliana had suggested it might be worthwhile – something about what she’d heard of the Iron Bull and the fact that he may provide valuable contacts and information. Darienne was intrigued but her legs were more interested in a few days rest.

 

Lost in her own thoughts, she miss-stepped and fell as she climbed the bank behind the recruits’ tents. The snow was a little deeper than she’d realized.  Reaching out to find purchase on anything, she found her hand clasped by a much larger one, the leather of his glove worn and soft. The small gasp of surprise died on her lips as she looked up into amber eyes.

 

“Are you alright my lady?” the concern in his soft question laced with no little mirth. Darienne bit her lip and looked away. She could feel the prickle of embarrassment begin to flush her cheeks.

 

“Yes, thank you,” she looked up at him, unable to help her own grin at the situation, “I believe that my pride suffered more damage than anything else.”

 

The scar on his lip twitched as a smile touched his eyes. He tightened his grip on her hand slightly and began to help her up. She lost her footing again and let out an embarrassed yelp followed by a fit of giggling and murmured apologies at her own ineptitude. Cullen caught her and rather than risk her continuing to slip, he grabbed her by the waist and simply lifted her to higher ground.

 

“Err, thank you,” Darienne thought she was going to spontaneously combust, her cheeks and neck were, she was quite certain, the same shade as his cloak, “I’m sorry, I’m not normally this – I mean I…”

 

She couldn’t look at him and worried at her lower lip. Gods she felt like a silly girl, flustered because a cute boy in school came and talked to her… right when she’d done something ridiculous and embarrassing. Brushing loose strands of hair behind her ear she frantically glanced everywhere else in the camp but him.

 

“It’s alright,” his voice was warm and deep, “these slopes are slippery and can be treacherous if you don’t know what lies beneath the snow. You’re not hurt?”

 

Darienne shook her head and looked up at her Commander grinning despite her embarrasment,

 

“Again, nothing more than my pride.”

 

Those amber eyes held hers a moment longer and he gave a nod before turning and making his way back to the rest of the recruits. Darienne didn’t move. She was torn between following the ex-Templar and trying to find another way, any other way, around the tents so she wouldn’t risk embarrassing herself further. She felt his eyes on her and turned to look at him. He gave her a questioning look and offered his hand. Feeling the familiar heat in her cheeks again, she accepted and managed to make her way back into camp without making a complete fool of herself.

 

“Commander,” she ventured, torn between genuine curiosity and a desire she was unwilling to acknowledge, “would you be willing to tell me more about Templars? You had mentioned that their powers would be better served to closing the Breach than mages; I was hoping to better understand.”

 

He stopped so quickly she nearly fell into him. Turning his head away from her, his voice was low.

 

“I am no longer a Templar. There are those in camp that are and have chosen to remain and fight with the Inquisition. They will be better able to answer your questions.”

 

He started forward again and without thinking, Darienne reached out and touched his broad shoulder. His whole body stiffened as though she’d shocked him. She wasn’t sure what it was that made her do that, but she refused to let the conversation end on that note.

 

“I know,” she said quietly. Walking around him to look him in the eye, “but they, all of them, look to you. You may have left the Order but to them, you are still their Knight Commander. That shows me that whether you remained a Templar or not, you know more than any of them, the truths of what being a Templar means. The fact that you left the Order and still believe them to be our best chance of success closing the Breach also gives me confidence in your reasoning. If the decision is to rest with me, which it seems it is, then I need honest and logical opinions regarding the advantages and disadvantages of working with them.”

 

Stepping back to give him some space, she glanced at the recruits stumbling, laughing and cursing around them. She could feel his pain. She didn’t know why he left the Templars, but the subject clearly upset him. Varric had known him before, perhaps he could shed some light on the situation. She wanted desperately to ease that pain – she wanted desperately to ignore the fact that his pain affected her this much. She’d always been empathic, always been able to feel peoples emotions and even knew what to say – most of the time. Amber eyes looked her over, suspicion hidden well behind cool indifference. Darienne returned the gaze, not wavering. Despite those beautiful eyes and a smile that made her weak in the knees, she genuinely wanted to get to know this man. He made her feel safe. She nibbled her lower lip a moment then plunged forward, hoping to reach beyond the ambivalence and ease the distrust behind. Whatever had happened, he’d very clearly been betrayed. Badly.

 

“Cullen,” she reached toward him and changed her mind, hugging herself, “I need to know these things, but I also…”

 

She faltered.

 

“We are going to be working together and, honestly, I would like to get to know you better.”

 

He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck the way she’d often seen him do when thinking. The muscles in his jaw twitched several times. After an excruciating moment or two, he nodded and those amber eyes turned on her again. The indifference was gone but misgiving now took the forefront, softened, however remotely by what she hoped was a glimmer of optimism.

 

“Alright,” he glanced over at an approaching lieutenant, “but it seems that it will have to wait. Good day lady Herald.”

 

With that he was once again swept up in the clamoring whirlwind that was his command.

 

Darienne stood quietly a moment, watching him blithely handle several scouts with no end of queries and questions only to be aware enough to call out a recruit on poor technique. Something about shields, blocking and dying at the hands of enemies. Amidst all this, he turned and caught her staring. She felt the flush on her cheeks again. His lip twitched and a small smile played at the edge of his scar.


	13. The Storm and the Coast...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Darienne manages to survive the melee... she may just have new allies...

“Fuck!” Darienne spit the coppery liquid from her mouth, gritting her teeth. It was hard enough trying to keep her footing on this Gods cursed beach let alone define friend from foe. The bandit mistook her expletive for fear and came in on her flank with his sword high. She wasn’t going to be able to out maneuver him and the shield bearer charging her. She felt the Fade surge around her and green glyphs danced in front of her eyes. The feeling was new and yet all too familiar. Whenever people crowded her or she’d felt the need to scream… she’d always imagined a pulse of energy bursting from within and rippling outward; a tsunami of force. Here, her magic gave those impulses substance.

 

The blade barely nicked the stitching on her vest when the spell coalesced and both her attackers were thrown several feet in the air. She didn’t have time to celebrate. The Iron Bull was outnumbered and blood was flowing freely from several future scars on his back and sides. Darienne charged to her newest ally’s aid, using the bladed base of her staff to make quick, grizzly work of the sword wielder that had so recently thought to bury his blade in her chest. Throwing forward her left hand, she encompassed the Qunari with a sigil of silver and sage. Sword falls slid harmlessly off the blood slickened warrior. His broad axe took care of the rest.

 

A familiar tingle ran along her back and the hairs on her arms stood on edge. The impact of the shield didn’t hurt, but the shock of being tossed into the air didn’t give her the opportunity to do much more than grunt as her breath left her lungs. She hit the ground with a hard roll, jagged rocks biting into her flesh despite Solas’ protective barrier. Bolts of lightning burst from her chest as she came up with her staff across the front of her chest, prepared this time, to ward off the impending blow.

 

The shield bash crushed her fingers, leaving them numb, despite the protective spell around her. She didn’t have enough magic left to throw this bastard backwards, so she rolled with his momentum, bringing her feet up onto the tower shield and letting his weight carry him over her. She only hoped he’d been travelling fast enough for her to complete the roll, otherwise he’d simply land on top of her. Feeling his impetus wane, she thrust up with her legs as the silvered bolts of lightning she’d released tore into his back. The smoking husk of his corpse landed with a dull thud in the surf. The Waking Sea wasted little time clawing it into its tumultuous depths.

 

She took these precious seconds to survey the battlefield. Cassandra was making quick work of a pair of bandits mistaking the lone warrior for an easy target. Varric was nowhere to be seen, but the excessive number of arrows jutting from various bodies, both dead and nearly dead, told her he wasn’t far. Likely on slightly higher ground if the angle of those slender protuberances was accurate. Solas stood back from the melee, casting various spells. Ice and fire wreaking havoc on the enemy’s formations. Bull and his Chargers shouted and moved about the field, not unlike a coordinated flock of birds, Darienne mused. They were a well-oiled machine that was certain.

 

Movement to her left caught her attention and lightning arced from her staff, paralyzing the three fighters that thought to single her out. As much as it shamed her, she didn’t think she would be able to take them all on her own; she called for Cassandra’s help, but the woman had been besieged by several more bandits. There would be no help from that quarter. Repositioning herself so that allies were at her back, she let her natural mana flow through the staff. Bolt after bolt of fire rained down on the armoured menaces. One fell to his knees, but the other two simply growled and fought the effects of her fire and lightning. She didn’t have much more space to back up without exposing herself to the ongoing melee. An arrow took one in the knee and he screamed in agony. Looks like she’d be buying Varric at least one drink at the tavern if she made it out of this with all her limbs. The other grinned, advancing warily. Darienne cast her own barrier and felt the magic flow over her, cool and soft, as were all the healing and protective spells she’d learned. Even protected though, she couldn’t let her guard down. The warrior was getting too close for Darienne to maneuver her staff with any efficiency, and they both knew it.

 

“Shit,” she murmured. Her combatant heard her and smiled in return.

 

“You shouldn’t have interfered Inquisition,” the woman grinned, teeth stained dark with blood glistening beneath the dented helm.

 

“Who are you,” Darienne tried and failed to put any measurable distance between them. Desperate to buy herself time, she swung the bladed tip of her staff upward in and arc hoping to catch the warrior off guard and slice into her thigh.

 

The woman brought her buckler down hard and swung her sword into Darienne’s exposed flank. The barrier held enough to prevent the blade from biting into her flesh, but the impact rendered her arm useless and she nearly lost her grip on the staff. She had little choice but to allow the downward momentum of the buckler’s hit act as an axis point for her staff. The gnarled tip fell forward and into the face of the bandit. Darienne let her mana surge through the rod and fire burst forth.

 

She jerked backwards, her screams swallowed by the howl of licking flames as they consumed her face. Darienne stepped back and finished her with the already bloodied tip of her stave. She could not condone letting anyone die that slowly and that horribly. Memories of burnt husks of bodies flashed briefly before her eyes. She shook them away and turned to the melee.

 

Few bandits still stood and those that tried to run were quickly cut down by arrows and flame. Darienne sought out her companions and walked over to the Iron Bull and his Chargers.

 

“Ha!” he shook his head, deep baritone voice making Darienne’s chest rumble when he spoke, “Krem, how’d we do?”

 

Krem reported and then went about the grizzly business of tending to the wounded and soon to be dead of the battlefield.

 

“So,” Bull looked her up and down. Darienne couldn’t tell if he was undressing her with his eyes or assessing where she might be hiding anything pointy or combustive. He caught her curious gaze and grinned lasciviously, growling, “Mmmm…. Both.”

 

She was convinced she’d never be warm or dry again. The rain was relentless here. The constant thunder and lightning did little for the ambiance either. She lay curled in on herself as much as she possibly could, hoping to conserve body heat, but the dampness just leached it from her core. Bull had offered to ‘keep her warm’ at least three times during the course of the evening. He’d also offered Cassandra… in fact he’d suggested that they ought to all keep each other warm… in his tent. Cassandra and made her customary grunt of disgust and she’d choked on her wine. Shivering in the tent, she was beginning to seriously reconsider.

 

Amber eyes flashed in her mind and the Commander came unbidden to her thoughts. She shook her head. She had no right to entertain any such notions but she couldn’t deny the warmth that flooded through her core at the thought of him offering to keep her warm. She bit her lip, unable to stop herself from wondering what his hands might feel like touching her hips, gliding over her waist and – she sat up and shook the thought away. The cold took hold once more and she retreated back beneath the covers; memories of forbidden thoughts dancing on the edge of her dreams that night.


	14. The Perspective of Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen is faced with his own past and what that means to his Herald...

The metallic din of swordplay gave way to the occasional clang of those few recruits still practicing as daylight faded and firelight cast dancing shadows across Haven’s walls. Cullen stood watching them, happy for the distraction. Scrutinizing and correcting the recruits techniques and forms was as natural as breathing. Easy. Comfortable. Preferable to thinking of his upcoming dinner with Darie – err, the Herald. He shook his head, not dinner, just a meeting. She’d asked him to discuss the Templars with her, then she’d gone traipsing across Thedas for more allies, leaving him far too much time to think about what she would ask and what he might have to answer.  He could not lie. Certainly not to her – despite his discomfort, she’d been put in the position to have to make the final decision regarding their method of powering her Mark to close the Breach. A tactic that may save or doom them all. He sighed inwardly. A decision that they all knew may also kill her.

 

She’d faced every challenge, every plea they’d given her with a grace that left him in awe. They wanted her to be willing to die for them and their cause and she’d simply nodded and asked them what they’d needed of her. She possessed a courage his heart only dreamt of. He would answer any question she asked of him. She had a right to know everything he knew – despite any discomfort to his pride. He refused to let his own arrogance or cowardice regarding his past place them, or her, in any further danger. If she asked, he would answer candidly. Images of molten claws tearing at his flesh and the screams of his fallen brothers and sisters rang in his ears. He gritted his teeth and willed the memories away, rolling his shoulders to dissipate the shadow pain that arched across the silvered scars on his back. If she didn’t ask – well – he wouldn’t dredge up what he didn’t have to. She needed facts, not gory details.

 

“Ferris, keep your shield up! Andrews, your feet – Maker’s Breath! You can’t attack if you’re on your ass – watch your footing!”

 

He ran a gloved hand over his face. It wasn’t the questions that had him on edge – not truly. It was the idea of being alone with her. Her smile made his heart stutter and when she spoke – in subtle jest or thoughtful curiosity, he held his breath. He had no right to get lost in her eyes or remember the softness of her waist in his arms when he’d lifted her out of the snowbank those weeks ago. The way she’d blushed and laughed at herself. He frowned and focused on the recruits trying desperately to coordinate their limbs and swords. He had an army to raise – and train apparently. There was no room in his life for beauty or softness… or romance. Men who wore armour on their bodies gave up that right – so the Chantry taught the Templar within. Long ago he’d resigned himself to that prideful solitude.

 

Andrews slipped again and nearly impaled himself on Ferris’ sword. If not for Cullen’s lightning reflexes knocking the blade out of Andrew’s path with his own, he’d have likely met with grievous injury. With his other hand, he grasped the startled recruit by the cuff of his tunic and prevented him from breaking his nose on the rocky ground. Pulling the slight man back to his feet Cullen growled his frustration.

 

“Andrews, your feet man!” Cullen looked at the man a little closer. He was familiar with all of his recruits by name and gait, though he’d not had the chance to meet each individually. Andrews was, on paper, a lad of 16 from the Crestwood area. Holding said recruit by the scruff, it was obvious that Andrews was not, in fact a lad of 16, but a lass of 18. Cullen sighed and cocked his head at the young woman who refused to look him in the eye.

 

“Andrews,” Cullen dropped the girl unceremoniously and crossed his arms, “You have exactly 30 seconds to explain yourself.”

 

The girl glanced sidelong at Ferris, who bit his lip. Clearly the two of them knew their charade was over.

 

“Sir, I am so sorry,” Andrews stammered, “but I wanted to join the Inquisition but my Pa and Ma said that women that weren’t already trained would just be scullery maids and I wanted to fight! I wanted to make a difference!”

 

She finished, her face red with indignation. The young man beside her was clenching his jaw and fists, clearly struggling to remain faithful to his fellow recruit without tipping the scale to insubordination. Cullen ran his hands through his hair and shook his head. He grabbed the bastard sword out of Andrew’s hand, turned and walked over to the weapon rack and picked up a short sword, testing its balance. Returning to Andrews, he put the sword in her hand and stood back.

 

“Andraste preserve me,” he rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, “how many women have you fought alongside Andrews? What were you thinking? Now get your Maker’s Blessed arses back in the ring and show me why you both shouldn’t be put on latrine duty for the next fortnight!”

 

The two gaped at him for a few seconds before hustling back into the ring and turned to him like halla caught in the sites of a hunter’s bow. He frowned and gestured at them,

 

“Well, Andrews, see if the weight is better balanced for you. Your footing will never be solid if your top heavy with your weapon. Now get on it!”

 

The two nodded and turned to face off. Andrews was like a completely different fighter. Her movements were better balanced and she managed to keep her feet beneath her. Ferris improved dramatically too, Cullen imagined that the fact that he wasn’t holding back for Andrews’ sake was no small part of it. There might be hope for them after all. He smiled and nodded, turning to the lieutenant approaching from his left.

 

“Sir,” the bulky man nodded and saluted.

 

“Borin,” Cullen nodded in return, “See to it that Andrews is shifted to the women’s barracks and have her re-outfitted with proper armour and make a note on her file that she should be working with a short sword and buckler nothing larger for the time being.”

 

Borin’s brow lifted only slightly, then he nodded, making a note on the board he was carrying. Cullen looked askance at the man who remained at his side, shuffling his feet uncomfortably.

 

“Is there something more?”

 

“Err…” the man fussed with his clipboard, “dinner is prepared sir and the Lady Herald is waiting for you in your tent.”

 

“Oh – err, right.” Cullen swallowed and rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at the rapidly darkening sky, “Ferris, Andrews, that’s enough for tonight. You’ll be up at dawn – I want you to run the mountain pass and be back before inspection.”

 

The two gave him pained looks but showed enough good sense to swallow their groans. They were getting off easy after Andrews’ idiocy and Ferris’ compliance with the charade. Cullen gave them a wicked grin and turned toward the barracks. He would bring the point home tomorrow during hand to hand combat training. The early morning run would be the least of their worries. He would also make sure that Lyssette had a private word with Andrews… it was all well and good to play the hero, it was another thing to pretend to the point of endangering yourself and others.

 

He nodded and smiled at the various calls and salutes from his men as he made his way toward his tent. He took a moment, willing the fluttering in his stomach to calm – Maker’s Breath – he’d been less nervous going into battle; then stepped inside. The lanterns bathed the front of his quarters in a soft glow, lending a subtleness to his normally sparse office. The large trunk that served as his table had been cleared of papers and lain with a simple meal of stew, breads and cheeses. Wine and water jugs sat among a plate of grapes and small fruits. He wasn’t sure why he was expecting something extravagant, but he found himself relieved.

 

There was no one else here. He glanced around, Borin had said she’d been waiting for him. Delicate footfalls outside precluded the gentle taping at the edge of the tent.

 

“Commander?” Her voice was barely audible above the din of the camp. He sucked in his breath and walked over, opening the flap. She started, her hand coming up reflexively to her breast and smiled, “Ah, there you are.”

 

She was lovely. Her hair falling loosely over her bare shoulders. She was in a simple dress of dark blue, the kind that mages traditionally wore. Her small waist was adorned with various buckles and the soft fabric flowed over her round hips and fell nearly to the ground. The lantern light danced over her features. Her lips parted in that small smile that always left him wondering what secrets those beautiful eyes were hiding.

 

“Err, yes,” he stepped back and let her in, trying desperately not to let his gaze get caught on the creamy skin of her ample décolletage, “I apologise for being late. I thought you were waiting in my tent, my Lady Herald.”

 

She laughed and shook her head.

 

“Please don’t call me that,” she grinned, “Everyone addresses me as though I am a title. I would like it if you called me Darienne – that’s who I am Commander. ‘The Herald’ is just publicity.”

 

“Only if you call me Cullen,” he smiled back. The pretty flush that crept along her cheeks made his heart slip a beat.

 

“Deal,” she winked, then paused and bit her lip, “I was waiting in your tent, briefly, but I didn’t want to intrude, so I decided to talk with a few of the troops until you returned. You’ve undertaken a huge task for the Inquisition. I must say that in such a short time you have already earned so much loyalty from the men and women who have come to fight beneath this banner. I think that says a great deal of you, Cullen.”

 

She hesitated when saying his name, as though she were afraid to speak it out loud. She looked away, ostensibly to readjust her seat. The soft flush that had so recently decorated her cheeks now bloomed over the soft flesh teasing out from the low cut of her dress. _Maker’s Breath,_ he swallowed and ignored his body’s interest in the soft, generous pleasures that lay beneath those few strained buckles on her chest. He cleared his throat and sat down across from her.

 

“Thank you, Darienne,” he smiled, letting her name roll over his tongue, enjoying the way it sounded in his ears, “There are a lot of good men and women out there. People that believe in what the Inquisition means, what you mean – don’t deny that you are less than a mere a figure head in this. You have brought allies to us with more than your name. Your actions are as far reaching as your title.”

 

A denial died on her lips, replaced with a small smile. She looked at him and nodded, resolve forcing her to look beyond her own humility.

 

“Actions that are not only under the scrutiny of Orlais and Fereldon but the mages and Templars. I honestly don’t know what to do Cullen. There is so much detail and history I don’t know and hearsay and prejudice leave me feeling like I can’t see anything resembling the truth. How am I supposed to support either side, let alone depend on them? So many assume that because I am a mage, I should simply align with them, but trying to get a clear picture of ‘who’ they are is proving no easy task. I have a basic understanding of how their magic would work based on my own – very limited – experience.

 

Depending on who I speak with, I get very different views of their reliability and their sanity as a whole. Were they truly so terribly oppressed and if they were, would that make them unreliable and dangerous as partners? Their actions thus far have not lent to my impression of their stability or trustworthiness.”

 

She sighed and sat back in her chair, clearly frustrated.

 

“Then again,” she waved her hand and looked apologetically at Cullen, “the Templars seem to have become just as unhinged.”

 

He couldn’t deny it. The actions of his former brothers and sisters were beyond his ken. Despite their sudden desertion of the Chantry and apparent seclusion within the Seekers, he still felt that they were her best option to close the Breach and survive whatever backlash may result. He sighed and rubbed the back of her neck, shaking his head.

 

“The world seems to have gone quite mad. The mages’ complaints were not unwarranted – though their rebellion was an extreme reaction. They were not slaves, though I will admit that relations between them and Templars were crumbling long before I ever picked up a sword. The duty of a Templar, in its purest form, is to protect the world from the perils of magic. This includes mages. Unfortunately that ideal of protection seems to have devolved into being keepers and in the mages view, jailers. I cannot say that I disagree with many of the measures taken within the circles to protect them and the world in general. When magic is wielded irresponsibly or becomes too much for the mage, the results are… dangerous for everyone.”

 

Her expression told him that she was reading well between the lines. He wondered what she’d heard of the mages plight; of his part in it. She watched him a moment, green-gold orbs steadily weighing his words on some internal scale. After a moment, she nodded thoughtfully and took a cup, filling it with wine before passing it to him then filing her own. She gazed into the dark liquid a moment before looking at him. Her voice was quiet.

 

“What happened Cullen?” she asked gently, “Varric said that Kirkwall was horrific and that both sides played a part in it.”

 

He sat back in his chair and took a deep breath. Facts, he told himself, not gory details. Finally, leaning forward, he set down his cup and looked at her.

 

“What have you been told?”

 

It was well into the night, their food cold, before she nodded sadly and sat back. She didn’t look at him and he feared that he’d lost her respect and her trust for his part in history; his distrust of and at one time, hatred of mages. He’d given her the facts, only the facts. He’d told her of his capture and the deaths of his brothers and sisters at the hands of abominations. He hadn’t told her about the torture. The scars that laced his back, his mind. He told her of his crazed Knight-Commander and the rebellion. He told her that he felt that both sides needed to be reformed if their world was to survive even without the threat of the Breach in the sky. He watched her anxiously as she stared sullenly into her untouched cup.

  

“Thank you,” she looked up. He searched her face for signs of condemnation, but found none, “I am grateful for your honesty, Cullen. I feel as though you have given me the clearest picture of what is going on. Despite all that you have endured, you are and have been, from the sounds of it, the truest example of what the heart of a Templar is meant to be.”

 

She leaned forward and took one of his gloved hands into her small ones, looking earnestly into his eyes. A sad smile touched her lips and reached her eyes. Try as he might, he could find no anger or resentment in their steady gaze. Only fear marred their clarity.

 

“Despite all of this, do you believe in me? I am an untested mage. I would understand if you didn’t.”

 

The source of her fear surprised him. She feared his condemnation? He swallowed as the years of training, distrust and anger hardened in his stomach. She was right, she wasn’t trained. She was wielding a power beyond any of their realm of knowledge and they were asking her to be the syphon for yet more. If she couldn’t handle that... they’d condemned her to death and he knew that despite all her heroism, her self-sacrifice… her kindness, he wouldn’t hesitate to cut her down. The hardened lump in his stomach caught in his throat and he forcibly swallowed it down and looked into her eyes.

 

Those hazel pools widened a moment, then she nodded, pulling back from him. She’d seen it. He couldn’t even deny it, though he desperately wanted to take away that hollow loneliness that seemed to swallow her light. He shook his head. It was not the woman across from him that he distrusted. Not at all. She’d already acquitted herself better than many full-trained mages he’d seen. It was the Breach and the magic they were asking her to wield that frightened him. He raged at the fear and anger inside of him, forcing it back. He needed to make her see.

 

He didn’t think, he stood and went to her. Kneeling in front of her, he took her face in one hand and gently forced her to look at him.

 

“Darienne,” he spoke softly, his voice hushing the rampant demons in his memory, “I do not hate you, nor do I distrust you or Your magic. I fear for you. I fear for you because we have asked you, untrained, to wield a power none of us know anything about. My training is a tool, it is not my conscience.”

 

She looked at him, through him, for a long silent moment. He held his breath. Finally, she nodded and the ghost of a hopeful smile touched her lips.

 

“Thank you.” She touched his hand and closed her eyes a moment before standing, “I have been a thing, a symbol, for so many. It’s nice to know that I am not…”

 

She sighed and shook her head, waving off whatever thought she hadn’t expressed.

 

“Your confidence means a great deal to me, Cullen,” she smiled and glanced at the table, “Although the next time we have dinner together, I insist that we actually eat it, preferably warm, and speak of happier things. I’m sure you must have some exciting stories. Besides, I have been dying of curiosity…”

 

The darkness of their previous conversation hidden well behind the mischievous gleam dancing in her eyes, she made her way to the tent flap and turned a coy look on him.

 

“What kind of vows did you take?”

 

With that she slipped out of his tent and into the night.

 

Cullen stood a moment, watching the sway of her hips as she disappeared behind the walls of Haven. A smile touched his lips as he entertained the idea of breaking any vow he may have ever made. Maker’s Breath.

 

 


	15. Sweet dreams...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deny what you feel, but you can't hide from your dreams...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has some explicit smut... because, well, it's fun and I thought i'd try my hand at it. 
> 
> Trying to get a grasp on muggle life so I can get back to posting regularly. Thank you all for your patience!

_The ale embellished stories had long since faded to silence and the fires now mere coals in the moon silvered night. Cullen stared at the shadows that hovered above the ceiling of his tent. His breath was steady and the measure of each inhalation a practiced meditation in control. Despite the familiarity of the camp noises and the quiet rustling of sleeping soldiers, every groan of a tree’s protest beneath the heavy snow and every crack of the frozen river beyond sent spasms through his body. He couldn’t even remember what had brought on the sudden need to fight, but his body was barely his own to control in those hushed moments of unseen terror. A sheen of sweat dampened his sheets and set his hair to slickened waves across his forehead._

 

_Three… Two… One more breath to steady the tremor in his hands. To try to sheath the sword that he only know realized was held in a defensive posture across his chest, catching the faint glow of the moon through the thin fabric of his tent and reflecting the silvered scars arching across his chest. They ached. They had no right to ache, nearly a decade gone, but the memories would not leave him in peace. The sound of Mia and Rosalie’s voices, his brother Branson’s laughter, merely the imaginings of a lost man now; but the burn of Sloth’s claws, the hollow gurgle of its voice in his head, the screams of his brothers and sisters at arms… that, it seemed, would be his the cherish until the end of his days._

 

_Another measured breath and he regained enough control of himself to swallow. Fibre by fibre, his muscles began to relax enough for him to let go of whatever dark memory held him fast. He stood, the need to burn off the adrenaline that had accumulated became overwhelming. With practiced ease, he was armoured and stepping out of his tent into the quiet night within minutes. The hushed life of the camp was a welcome sight. He lost himself in the familiar ritual of a discreet foot patrol. Despite what Leliana thought, he could move very quietly in full plate. It was not an ability he used often, it was not necessary. It was also not something high ranking Templars cared to share. He smiled to himself as he finished walking the perimeter of the camp, his steps all but silent._

 

_The rhythm of night was broken by a discordant footfall. It was soft and light, had he not been so accustomed to a night’s watch, he might have mistaken it for a breath of wind through the trees. He glanced in the direction of the sound and stilled himself, hand instinctively on his sword. A cloaked figure stepped out from the shelter of Haven’s gates and walked gently toward the river’s edge. There was no sense of urgency or stealth in that small gait, but more a careful pace, so as not to disturb the camp. He frowned as the small figure paused outside of his tent, a small, hesitant gesture toward the entrance, only to be pulled back before disappearing onto the wooded path leading to the docks._

 

_Instinctively he reached out and felt for magic around his tent. There was none but the lingering feel of a mage’s aura though no spell had been cast. His cloaked shadow it seemed, was a mage. He focused for a moment of the feel of the magic, every mage’s connection to the Fade felt different. He hadn’t sought such a connection in some time. They had so few about camp and he’d been distracted with so many other duties. Clearly he’d been remiss. When he reached for her, for the size and gait of the steps were clearly female, there was a sense of familiarity. When his Templar essence touched her Fade gifts it felt like the first warmth of the morning sun, light shattered into a thousand prisms on the fading night’s dew. Her. He slackened his grip in the hilt of his sword and followed the retreating shadow into the woods._

 

_He found her, face upturned, her creamy skin luminescent beneath the moon’s light. She stood on the small dock overlooking the lake, her hair dancing softly in the cool breeze. Despite the heavy cloak about her shoulders, the wind tugged it tightly against her body, curves silhouetted against the snow. He quickly suppressed the heat that stirred. She seemed entirely unaware of his presence. The warrior within grimaced, concerned that she’d left herself so vulnerable. Powerful she and her Mark may be, but she was still very naïve to the threats she faced. He’d made Haven as safe as he could for them, for her, but to take a chance such as this… he couldn’t allow it._

 

_A quick glance of the area confirmed that he was, at least, the only predator she’d face tonight. He stalked toward her, footfalls never more than a whisper on the snow. His armour as silent as his breath. A hands breadth from her, he spoke,_

 

_“It is not safe for you to wander out of Haven’s gates alone at night, my Lady Herald.”_

 

_She started and spun, a spell on the tip of her tongue, hand raised to emit the veins of lightning already forming in her palm. Her reaction was admirable, he mused as his own instinct kicked in. Her magic was dampened even as his caught her wrist and held her fast._

 

_“Commander!?” She gasped, eyes wide with fear, then surprise. Shock quickly faded into ire as she tried to push him away. He wasn’t sure if it was anger or embarrassment that coloured her cheeks, “Dammit! You scared me!”_

 

_“Good,” Cullen found his own anger rising. How could she take such a chance? Did she have no idea how dangerous it was outside the walls? “Darienne, why are you out here alone… and in the middle of the night no less?”_

 

_Pulling away from him she turned her head, trying to calm her breathing. She smelled of crystal grace and roses. After a few steadying breaths, she turned back, a stubborn set to her hips and fire in her eyes._

 

_“One might ask the same of you,” she swallowed as she looked him over, realizing that he was fully armoured, and armed, “Cullen – is everything okay?”_

 

_She looked past him, her small frame adopting a defensive posture. Her hand instinctively moving to take a staff that wasn’t there. The act cost her her cloak, which slipped from her shoulders and blew onto the ice below. His breath caught in his lungs, as he stayed her hand._

 

_“No,” he swallowed. She wore only a shift, its gauzy fabric all but transparent in the moonlight. The wind pressed it against every luscious curve and teased it across her shapely thighs. He forced himself to look aside as he released her hand and stepped back, “No… errr, yes, everything is okay. I heard movement while I was walking patrol and saw a shadow slip out of the gates.”_

 

_His fear for her overrode his sense of propriety a moment and he turned back to her taking her by the shoulders,_

 

_“Have you any idea how dangerous it is for you to wander off like this?! You would be entirely alone out here, There are wolves and bears and Maker only knows what sort of scout or enemy lurking about! What were you thinking?”_

 

_She shook her head and pushed away from him, the wide neck of her chemise slipping down, baring a smooth shoulder and the subtle swell of her breast._

 

_“I wasn’t thinking,” she sighed, “I was… I just wanted a moment to myself.”_

 

_She looked up at him, hair dancing around her face._

 

_“I am never alone and yet I am utterly alone here! I just wanted, I don’t know what I wanted Cullen… I…”_

 

_Her voice trailed off and she looked up at him. For once he saw how tired she was, her startling exotic beauty touched by a deep melancholy. She crossed her arms over her chest protectively, sheltering herself from the cold wind. She was shivering. He didn’t think, he simply reacted. Picking her up, he walked quickly and quietly, taking her back to his tent._

 

_He set her gently on his bed and wrapped her in his blankets. Despite the layers of fabric covering her, his body remembered the way her clothes pressed against the curve of her hip, the swell of her breasts and the tautness of her nipples, a blush darker than the pale skin beneath the gauzy fabric. The dancing light of the fire lamps in his quarters did little to add to his self-control. The flickering light danced with the copper in her long hair, falling tousled to frame her face. Her lips, soft and glistening as she ran her pink tongue over them were parted with unspoken thoughts. Maker he wanted her._

 

_He busied himself making tea and pointedly not looking at her. He should have taken her back to her own quarters. He should have simply let her have her moment of peace and stood watch for her. Andraste preserve me, he swallowed and willed the heat in his loins to subside. She was naked beneath that shift. He knew that well enough._

 

_“Cullen,” her voice was soft, “I’m sorry. I should have known better. I wasn’t thinking about the danger. I just… I –“_

 

_He turned to see her standing, firelight lending an ethereal quality to her beauty. The fabric of her clothes was all but transparent. He groaned inwardly as she walked up to him, putting her hands on his chest plate._

 

_“Maker,” his voice was hoarse, “Darienne, I… you, should go…”_

 

_She looked up at him, hazel eyes vulnerable for just an instant before she closed herself up once more. The Herald looked back at him once again, a small sad smile on her lips, “Of course, I… I shouldn’t be here …”_

 

_She turned, placing his cloak over her shoulders and walked toward the tent flap._

 

_“No.”_

 

_His voice little more than a whisper. She paused and turned to him. Two strides and he took her by the small of the back with his left hand, pressing her against him. His right tangled in her hair as he kissed her. Her lips parted willingly for him, soft and yielding. His first kisses , soft, gentle as they explored one another. He felt her back arch beneath his hand and she pressed herself closer to him. A groan rose in his throat as her hand drifted below his chest plate and brushed the belt on his breeches. His grip tightened in her hair, his kiss deepening. He took her mouth with the same passion he intended to take the rest of her exquisite body; deeply. She received his passion willingly, tongue dancing in rhythm to his own. A husky moan escaped her as his hand slid down her back and cupped the ripe fullness of her backside before drifting to the softness of her thigh._

 

_He released his hold on her only long enough to tear off his gloves, before embracing her again, his hands cupping her face before sliding over her slender shoulders. He walked her back toward the bed, exploring every curve, every swell, the soft fabric between them driving his desire further and further from his control._

 

_“Darienne,” he growled as his hands slipped down her thigh and found the hem of her shift. The catch in her breath was enough to push him over the edge. He slid the flimsy fabric up over the swell of her hips. Laying her on the bed, his hands slid down the silky flesh of her thighs, parting her knees. She stretched out beneath him, slick and glistening to his touch. He breathed her in, the soft floral scent that always brought her image into his mind now mingled with the spiced musk of her heat._

 

_He moved to kiss the soft inner flesh of her thigh but found her hand on his cheek. He looked up at her a question on his lips. She held a finger to her own silencing him and sat up shaking her head._

 

_“Not yet Commander,” her voice was coy and her smile full of mischief._

 

_He frowned and pulled back._

 

_“Shhhh… Commander,” she shook her head again, “I’m afraid it’s time to wake up.”_

 

Cullen gasped and sat up in bed, a worried lieutenant calling through the flap of his tent.

 

“Commander?! Commander?! Are you alright in there Sir?” The voice held a note of hysteria.

 

Cullen growled into his hands and tried to shake away the throbbing heat in his loins.

 

“What!” he managed not to roar, barely, at the stunned man outside.

 

“Oh, err, sir,” The shadow saluted, “err, you weren’t at the morning warm up sir. We were concerned… ummm, sir, you see, you’ve never missed one.”

 

Cullen ran his hands through his hair. It was true, he’d never missed one. Mostly because he was always awake well before the rest of the camp - that is if he'd slept at all. He glanced around, trying to get his bearings and a fix on the time. From the sounds of the calamity outside, the recruits had commenced light weapons training. Maker’s breath, it was nearly lunch, no wonder the Lieutenant was becoming concerned.

 

“Thank you Lieutenant,” he shook his head, “I’ll be out presently.”

 

“Sir.” Was the only reply. He waited for the footsteps to get lost in the din of the daily camp routine, then fell back onto his pillow. Had he really dreamt that? The throbbing ache between his legs was certainly testament to that fact. Makers Breath, it felt so real. More disturbingly, it felt so right. He knew he shouldn’t be thinking of her that way, but, Andraste’s ass, he wanted her.

 

The vivid memory of her lips and the lush softness of her hips coursed through his groin anew. He steadied his breath and tried to think of anything else but his body refused to relinquish the thought of her softness beneath him. Closing his eyes, he grasped his thick shaft and imagined how her moans of pleasure would echo in his ears.


	16. A Breath in Haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darienne prepares to return to the front lines...

“Need anything heavy lifted?”

 

“I’m quite sure that would be a waste of your talents, ser.”

 

Grinning, Darienne shook her head and gave Blackwall and mischievous wink. It was a relaxed, easy flirtation and despite the appraising look the taciturn warden gave her, she felt safe in the knowledge that their acquaintance was fast becoming a friendship of quiet trust. She’d been the oldest in her family, but when he laughed heartily and shook his head, Darienne imagined the feeling to be the closest she’d ever get to having an older brother.

 

She left him still smiling as he returned to sharpening his broadsword in the smoky glow of Haven’s forges. They were headed back into the Hinterlands at sunrise and she needed to speak with Cassandra about their plan of action. They’d managed to clear out the apostates and the main Templar camp after bringing Blackwall into the fold, but the vendetta between the two groups still burned with maniacal rage and the area was far from safe.

 

Leliana’s suspicions had been warranted, it seemed, and Darienne was glad that she’d listened to the soft-spoken bard and insisted on looking for the warden. While Leliana and Josie poked around the finer details of the Treaties Blackwall had mentioned, her priority was now to get to Master Dennet and secure some horses.

 

Cassandra stood glowering over some hapless scout. Darienne could feel her impatience from across the camp. She arrived just as the statuesque warrior’s foot began to tap on the ground. The oblivious scout was rambling off a series of sundries and supplies, so focussed on her paper she had no idea her life was in imminent danger.

 

“My apologies for the interruption,” Darienne tried to keep her mouth from twitching, “but it is imperative that I speak with you Lady Cassandra.”

 

Cassandra turned to her with an enthusiasm she normally saved for sparring practice and Darienne was sure that the woman considered hugging her on the spot.

 

“Ahem, your worship,” the scout nodded with deference but was not to be deterred in her mission, “of course, but I simply must relay this list to Seeker Cassandra without delay…”

 

Cassandra rolled her eyes and grunted with disgust. Darienne interjected before the Seeker well and truly lost her temper.

 

“Scout Elaina,” this close, she recognized the young woman’s russet skin and handsome freckled face as one of Leliana’s newer flock, “may I ask what this list is pertaining to? We are preparing to return to the Hinterlands on the ‘morrow and there are a number of points I need to discuss with Lady Cassandra – preferably before dark.”

 

The raven eyed girl blinked and a dark flush began to colour her cheeks as she realized she’d just brushed off the Herald of Andraste and the fallen Divine’s Right Hand. She worried at her lip a moment, clearly weighing her fear of insulting the women in front of her or returning to the Nightingale with a task incomplete. Darienne didn’t blame her for hesitating. Leliana had shown herself to be the very heart of love and compassion with the resolve and ruthlessness of dwarven steel. She did not brook failure.

 

“May I ask what the list entails?” Darienne offered. Cassandra grunted.

 

“Supplies, my Lady,” she hesitated, “things required from the Hinterlands. She wanted Lady Cassandra to check that it was complete.”

 

Before Cass could issue forth another groan, Darienne held her hand out for the list.

 

“A wise decision, how about you leave it with me and the Lady Seeker and I can go over it while we are preparing to travel. We can add any supplies we find lacking and perhaps unburden your Lady somewhat. I will see personally that the list is given to the quartermaster before we leave.”

 

Both women let out an audible sigh before the scout saluted and ran off in the direction of Haven’s gates. Cassandra looked at her and shook her head.

 

“I simply do not have the patience for this. There must be someone other than me that can look these things over,” she picked up her great sword and began warming up her shoulders, “Thank you, by the way. I’m not sure how much more I could endure. I stopped listening after the third variety of elfroot was mentioned.”

 

She hit the practice dummy a couple of times and stretched.

 

“Did you need something my friend? Or did you only come to rescue me?”

 

Darienne smiled.

 

“I rather think I was rescuing young Elaina. You looked as though you were considering reassigning her to the position of practice dummy.”

 

Cassandra snorted then broke into one of her rare grins. She was a striking woman. A princess of Nevarra, features like fine porcelain and a striking figure, long and regal. Yet, the thought of this woman in layers of fabric, bound by corsets and courtesans left Darienne feeling hollow. Dragons, demons, apostates, war… none could lay a woman such as this so low as the yoke of politics and the frivolous machinations of ‘polite’ society. It pained her to think of Cassandra that way. Shaking the disquieting thought away, she forced herself to focus on the more immediate business in front of her.

 

“I just wanted your advice before we headed out tomorrow.” She handed the scroll to Cassandra, who sighed and took it. Darienne would have considered going over it herself, however, while Solas’ ring allowed her to understand and speak the common tongue, it did not unravel the mysteries of their written word. She couldn’t read and it galled her. It was not a fact they’d shared with anyone but the most intimate of their circle. Varric was teaching her but it was complicated by the fact that whenever he spoke, she heard English and he heard his tongue. There hadn’t exactly been time to sit and focus on learning the language at all really, though she did occasionally take off the ring and simply listen, feeling the intent and flow of the conversation and trying to guess at the words. She hated feeling so dependant of that bit of magic.

 

“Speak you mind, Darienne,” Cassandra touched her shoulder, mistaking her frustration for concern about the upcoming venture. Darienne sighed again, she really needed to stop doing that she decided, and straightened her shoulders.

 

“I was thinking we’d bring Varric and Blackwall this time. I wanted your thoughts on that.”

 

Cassandra looked out over the camp and gazed at the quiet form of the warden still honing his blade with an almost meditative focus. Darienne watched her. There was respect in those dark grey eyes and perhaps, Darienne mused, a flicker of something else. After a moment, those smoky eyes turned back to her, her friend no longer, but the pragmatic and appraising glance of a warrior sizing up a companion. A brief flicker of her eyes to the gates housing the chantry and the majority of their companions before she nodded.

 

“Perhaps,” She mused, “With an extra blade and someone who can engage readily in melee combat it may be worth a try. We’ll bring The Iron Bull and Solas to the forward camps and leave them close at hand. Those fool apostates and Templars are still roaming about despite our best efforts.”

 

Darienne tried and failed to suppress her grin. The fact that Cassandra didn’t feel she needed another mage to watch over her showed that her friend and hopefully the rest of her companions were gaining confidence in her ability to handle her magic. Though she’d never yet experienced anything that left her feeling like she was struggling with an inner demon beyond her own memories, she’d heard enough tales around the fires at night and felt the cautious glare of more than one Templar.

 

She left Cassandra to disembowel yet another practice dummy and found herself walking toward the river’s edge. Blushing even as she did it, she glanced toward the sparring recruits hoping to catch a glimpse of Cullen. He wasn’t there. Chiding herself for her foolishness, she turned resolutely toward the river and berated herself. The talk they’d had the other night had been one of the more pleasant and comfortable evenings she’d spent, despite the difficult subject matter. Yes the man was devastatingly handsome, but truly, it wasn’t why she sought him out. He made her feel safe. She wanted to know what was going on behind those leonine eyes. There was a brilliant tactician and warrior in that armour, but she sensed that there was a great deal more to him. He managed to personify power with no trace of the brutishness or ego she’d witnessed in many of the other soldiers – particularly those she’d crossed paths with in combat.

 

A flush bloomed across her chest and rose to her cheeks. She’d dreamt of him. The memory still made her breath catch and her knees weak. His mouth, his hands… she shook her head. This was not the time or the place for such things. She shouldn’t even be thinking about this or him. _Focus._ She told herself. She glanced back at the people milling about Haven, going about their business. Breathing in the alpine air around her, she slipped passed the abandoned house of the old alchemist and toward the quiet of the dock.

 

Settling her cloak around her, she curled up on the edge of the pier her back against the piling. The wind played in her hair and the sun grazed the razor edged mountain peaks. Closing her eyes, she felt her tension begin to ease. There was music in the solitude and restfulness in the crystalline river beneath her. Just a few minutes to herself before she packed her gear and prepared to head back into blood and death and Rifts.


	17. In sacrifice...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What would you be willing to sacrifice for your friends? Darienne is faced with decisions that don't permit logic or time. How you react in the moment is a greater definition of character than all the pretty promises in the world...

“If you stare any harder, you’ll light the parchment on fire.”

 

She started and ink splattered across the paper, the small vial dropping to the ground.

 

“Dammit Varric!” Darienne tried furiously to arrest the spreading stain of dark ink on the ankle of her boot.

 

“Sorry about that,” he grinned, the twinkle in his eyes betraying that he was anything but. With the same uncanny silence he’d appeared with, he sauntered over and sat beside her, “So, drawing a masterpiece or writing a sonnet?”

 

Dabbing the paper with a blotting cloth, she gave him a sideways glance. Not buying her attempt at pouting, he ruffled her hair.

 

“Oh come on,” he didn’t even give her the satisfaction of pretending to feel bad, “You barely had a few lines…”

 

“Spying on ones companions is very gauche,” she cocked an imperious brow at him a moment then shook her head. He was impossible to shame, “I hate that I can’t read or write Varric. I hate that I don’t know the language and I have to rely on the ring Solas gave me.”

 

“I thought you were doing pretty well, all things considered,” the grin softened, “it’s not as though you’ve had a lot of time to be able to focus on those things – what with saving the world and all.”

 

“I’m reading children’s books… badly,” Darienne sighed and rubbed her face, realizing belatedly, that she now had ink smudged all over her. Groaning, she flopped back on the grass and stared at the clouds collecting in the sky.

 

The first traces of concern touched her friend’s face and he lay back beside her.

 

“This really bothers you eh?”

 

“Yes,” she glanced at him and returned her gaze to the slow and inevitable advancement of the gathering storm above, “I am essentially naked and defenceless without Solas’ ring. At least that’s how I feel. I have always been an avid reader and I have written stories since I was a child. To be without that makes me feel… claustrophobic.”

 

She waved her hands in the air, her frustration having no other means of egress. Varric watched her silently for a moment.

 

“Okay then,” he sat up, voice more resolute than she ever remembered him being, “So, I’ll teach you. Josephine will likely tie you up and try to undo everything I teach you – but that will be after the fact. At least you’ll know what’s going on. Oh, and I’ll make sure you can curse in every language on Thedas.”

 

He winked at her and got up, offering his hand. Clearly he deemed her pouting session over.

 

“We’ll start tonight around the fire,” the nonchalant grin back in his eyes, “by the way, who were you trying to write to?”

 

Darienne blinked and felt her cheeks begin to prickle with the first heat of a blush.

 

“Ah,” his grin widened and a sly sparkle touched his eyes, “we’ll have writing ‘reports’ to the commander in no time. I’m sure he’ll more than appreciate them… especially from you.”

 

“I never…” she gaped. Varric smirked and he held up his hand.

 

“Of course not,” the grin widened.

 

“Wait,” Darienne regretted it the moment it left her mouth, “what do you mean he’d appreciate reports from me specifically?”

 

“Did I say that?” Varric scoffed, turning away and disappearing into the camp proper.

 

She had been writing to Cullen – or rather attempting to outline a letter. She wanted to forewarn him that they were going to have to build watch towers in order to buy Dennet’s aid. It was always a good plan to keep one’s Commander in the loop. That’s what she told herself anyway.

 

She also wanted to be able to mull over the inevitable choice she needed to make regarding the Templars and Mages. It helped to write it down and writing to herself just seemed to be leading her in circles. Everyone had an opinion and she valued them all but talking about it always seemed to stir up personal feelings on the matter. This wasn’t about personal preference, or even raw power, to her mind. Whichever sect they – she chose, would hopefully become full blown allies to march under the Inquisition banner. She needed to know they’d be loyal and powerful. Power without loyalty would destroy them as surely as the Rifts.

 

She was going to pen something to each of her companions and advisors hoping to get rational and dispassionate insight into both parties. She also thought it might give her a chance to get to know them better. All of them, she thought to herself. She felt like she had alliances more than friendships among her companions, for the most part. Even Varric, who was genuinely friendly and seemed to care, was somewhat distant. She suspected that it was less personal than it felt. She’d heard about Kirkwall, some from the dwarf himself, a bit from Cullen and the rest rumours – though the two men that had actually been there managed to speak of it while saying very little. There was pain there for both of them, she knew that, but hoped that she could reach beyond that and have her offer of friendship accepted beyond the surface.

 

Shaking her head, she retrieved the parchment and ink. The blotches had rendered it entirely useless as far as anything worth writing on, so she settled for sketching out the landscape around her. The distant storm was wending its way toward them faster than she’d prefer. If they wanted to seek out the den of the wolves that had been attacking Dennet’s people, they’d better get a move on.

 

*****

 

Darienne leveled a conspiratorial grin at Blackwall who just shook his head and scanned the riverbed below them. Varric was toying with Cassandra’s nerves… again. The warrioress showed remarkable constraint, despite the rogue’s attempts to bait her.

 

“So, just why would the Divine want to see poor old insignificant me so badly?” Varric queried, innocence dripping from his tongue.

 

“I imagine she wanted to see the glory of your chest hair for herself,” Cassandra growled.

 

In her attempt to hold back a laugh, Darienne ended up choking on the water she’d just drawn from her skin. Blackwall chuckled and Varric stopped mid stride, his face a mixture of shock and gleaming pride.

 

“Why Seeker,” he feigned a gasp, “I didn’t know you – “

 

Darienne’s hand thrummed then sharp pain exploded up her arm, dropping her to one knee. The howling shriek of a rift deafened her temporarily and the sickly haze of the fade coloured her vision. The crack of an opening rift echoed through the riverbed to her left, she could feel the demons reaching through.

 

Instinctively casting a barrier on herself and her nearest companions, she rushed to her feet. Staff at the ready, she looked around. Though she was unable to see the open rift, it was close. She glanced at Blackwall, who stood at the ready, though his eyes were on her. A quick glance showed her that none of her companions had seen or heard anything more than her reaction. Taking a steadying breath she glanced in the direction she felt the pull.   A nod of her head and they started around the river bend, weapons at the ready.

 

Five monstrosities milled around the small waterfall, sniffing the air. Sniffing for her she realized. As soon as she stepped into their line of site, as one that reacted to her presence. Steeling herself, she replenished her barrier as Blackwall and Cassandra raised their voices in a cry for battle. She held back her first volley of magic as Solas had taught her. His words echoed in her head.

 

“ _Let the warriors attract their attention first, for once focused on a target, an enemy is difficult to distract. They are built for it. You and I are not.”_

 

She clenched her teeth and waited a few more heartbeats for both her heavily armoured companions to strike at the demons. These ones seemed particularly aggressive and unsettlingly organized. They were surrounded already, she couldn’t even make out their forms but for the glints of metal amidst the claws. She let the magic flow up and through her, releasing a volley of lightning. Three convulsed and left themselves open to the devastating swing of Cassandra’s great sword. They bled, but the wounds were far from fatal.

 

Darienne caught movement out of the corner of her eye, a withered black robe spun aloft and aimed its empty cowl in Blackwall’s direction. Darienne whirled her staff toward it and the spiked star at its tip released bolts of fire. The creature shrugged the flames off and shot a cone of freezing air at the shielded warrior. She heard his groan as his limbs slowed and his movement all but ceased. The cloaked demon spun away its gaze falling on Cassandra next.

 

Both warriors were overwhelmed in a matter of seconds. Though she couldn’t see him, she heard Varric mutter an oath and a brief prayer to Andraste. If Varric was praying, the situation was serious indeed. Darienne glanced around. For the time being, she’d gone largely unnoticed. She cast a barrier to cover the heavy fighters then formed a sigil beneath the bulk of the demons. It glowed crimson then burst into flame. The few Cassandra had injured writhed on the ground before being consumed by fire. The black cloak howled again and Darienne felt the cold creep through her limbs. She couldn’t afford to be caught in its gaze, so she dove to the side, hoping that Varric’s training and Sarah’s endless pranks had taught her some agility. Her limbs ached, but remained her own to control – for the moment. Best make it count. She growled and pulled on her remaining mana and focussed on the surrounded warriors.

 

She let her focus turn inward and looked through fade shrouded eyes at the spell binding Cassandra and Blackwall. It brittle and crystalline, she knew that if she struck it just right, she could break it. Reaching out, she let the dispel sigil dance in her mind’s eye before releasing it. She felt the rush of mana returning to the fade as the ice around the warriors crumbled. She pulled on her last reserves and thrust another volley of lightning toward the cloaked figure and the remaining terror demon. Their screams echoed in the small ravine.

 

Another burst of Fade energy ripped through her as a second group of demons reached out from the veil. More terror demons and another black robed figure tore into the world. Darienne didn’t wait for the warriors to strike this time. The robed demon nearly killed them before and it needed to die before it had a chance to freeze any of them again. Over and over she swung her staff, throwing fire at the creature. She felt her magic build again and let forth a burst of flame, engulfing it and sending its spinning rags to smoking ash. In the back of her mind she could feel Cassandra’s pain and fatigue. Searching the field of battle for her friend, Darienne found her once again overwhelmed by the spidery limbs of terror demons. Blackwall lay prone. Varric sought higher ground and pumped bolt after bolt into the fray.

 

A cry of pain from the writhing mass surrounding the Seeker set Darienne’s resolve. She cast a barrier around her struggling friend and charged into the melee. If Cassandra fell, they were lost. She spared a glance at the warden’s still form and thanked the Gods for small blessings. The demons lost interest as soon as he lost consciousness, though the growing pool of blood beneath him told her that it was only a matter of time before nature did the fiends grizzly work for them. She needed to buy them time.

 

“Varric!” she yelled into the empty air, praying her camouflaged friend could hear her over the screaming, “Blackwall needs help!”

 

Darienne watched Cassandra fall to one knee, her great sword held up to stave off the onslaught of claws and barbed tails. Her own mana was dangerously low and fatigue gnawed at her limbs. If she could distract them long enough, Varric could shove a healing potion down Blackwall’s throat without being seen and Cassandra could regain her feet. Pulling on her remaining mana caches she cast a barrier over herself and set the last into the pale violet sigil hovering in front of her vision. Power crackled around her and luminescent energy gathered above the demons before forking down and wracking their bodies with her magic.

 

The three remaining terrors convulsed, one collapsing; its smoking body dissolving in a hiss of gore and putrescent ooze. The other two turned vacant eyes on her before opening pulsing black portals in the ground beneath them. Darienne used those precious seconds to thrust the fade energy of her mark into the rift, hoping to slow the demons inevitable return.

 

It wasn’t enough. The hiss of the ground beneath her barely registered before she was thrown back. The impact of the fall knocked her breath from her as she fought to bring her staff up. She let loose a bolt of fire as one opened its maw to scream. Another prayer of gratitude to the Gods as she cut it off before its paralyzing effect overwhelmed her willpower. She scuttled backward over the rugged ground, feeling the fabric of her coat give way. It bought her only enough time to register the sting of the other terror’s barbed tail in her side, before its poison began to burn her inside.

 

Her barrier crumbled around her as the second fiend racked its claws across her chest. The nugskin gave way and crimson blossomed over the cotton jerkin beneath. She managed to pull her staff up and block the second swipe. She couldn’t afford to roll and expose her back to get a better angle. Shards of rock dug into her ribs as she thrust her legs out, kicking the closest demon’s knee. The creature wailed and stumbled back a few precious feet, buying her the time to cast again.

 

She pulled on the mana around her, sending a blast of concussive force outward. Both demons staggered and she regained her feet. Cornered against the natural grotto wall as she was, there was limited room for her to maneuver her staff. Thrusting up and forward she aimed to take the closer of the two in the face. Fire clung to its muzzle, lapping at its eyes. It shrieked and flailed at its face, stumbling back. The other left her no reprieve, its barbed tail striking her thigh.

 

The pulsing burn of poison rushed through her leg and up her hip. Will alone wasn’t enough to keep her on her feet. The leg collapsed, the spine still caught in her flesh. Even as fabric and flesh tore, the terror was brought off balance. Darienne reacted, forcing her staff into its gaping maw and letting loose a volley of fire. Sweat clouded her vision and the other demon became a blurred shadow of green and black.

 

The glint of steel and the blessedly familiar roar of Blackwall’s call to arms touched her through the fog of poison and fatigue. The wind of Varric’s bolts brushed her cheek as the looming terror seemed to fall away and light overwhelmed her. The clash of metal and claw gave her enough focus to clear her mind and vision enough to focus on the fade leak in the sky above. She fell forward, catching herself with her right hand and lifting her left. The call of the fade reached out to her mark and energy coursed through her body. The hiss of the sealed rift whispered in her ears, then there was nothing but the cool stone and the soft kiss of the storm’s first raindrops on her cheek.

 

 


	18. The price of morality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darienne faces the consequences of her heroism...

Recruits threw themselves at each other with all the fervor born of new pride and purpose. They were no longer spectators merely watching the upheaval around them. With this new sense of resolve, they were given a certain power. The power to control their fate; the power to hope. The clang of the heavy practice swords lacked the song that a fine blade made when ringing against another of quality. Darienne was beginning to think she could define the superiority of a blade by the sound it made as it skipped off a shield, or its silence when the shield-bearer was too slow.

 

She grimaced and looked at the fresh stitching in her nugskin coat. It had been the razored stinger of a terror demon that took her right flank. She hadn’t even realized she’d been struck until she tried to shut the rift and her body collapsed instead. She remembered little else except the minty flavour of elfroot potions on her lips and Cassandra’s cursing until they’d made it to base camp and the healers patched her up. The fresh scars on her hip and collar bone still ached and pulled. Solas said that it was her shield barrier that had saved her. Cullen and Cassandra claimed it was sheer stubbornness.

 

Varric had attempted to vindicate her, though she’d been unconscious or delirious during the majority of his rousing arguments in her defense. According to Cassandra, saving her and Blackwall’s life was no excuse. Apparently being the ‘Herald’ of their greatest disciple, one who’d sacrificed herself for the greater good and all that, was only a desirous trait for stories. Morality in real life was meant to be somewhat more fluid. Don’t go doing reckless things for individuals, the big picture was all that mattered. To Darienne’s way of thinking, if you lost sight of the people you were saving - your friends, comrades, and innocents… you lost something of your own morality. The world became a thing and things had less value. At some point, the value of ‘things’ changes your perspective on what the bigger picture is. A slippery slope indeed. After all, she was the one to hurl herself into another world to save an unknown woman screaming inside a mirror. Considering how that had turned out, a dark whisper in her head conceded that the Seeker had a point.

 

Upon returning to Haven, she regretted having recovered consciousness at all. Cullen had been livid and she’d been a captive audience. She’d already been soundly lectured by Cassandra and Blackwall the entire journey home. Solas and Iron Bull offering little in the way of support for her cause. ‘Reckless’ was the word of choice for the week long trip. Mages were not meant to enter into melee combat. Ever.

 

They’d ridden into Haven, her wounds bound and the bleeding staunched – mostly. She’d smiled and greeted the Inquisiton’s supporters with what she’d secretly dubbed ‘the Queen wave’. Laughing and making small talk as they praised her for how she was saving Thedas; it wasn’t just the oozing wounds that made her feel sick to her stomach.

 

Cullen hadn’t been fooled for a second. If it weren’t for the fact that appearances needed to be upheld, she was pretty sure he would have demanded the gory details on the spot. No sooner was she subtly whisked away to her quarters and her dressings changed did he burst through the door. He’d stood behind the healers, a great dark lion in the shadows. Shakily, they’d finished with her and got her settled before fleeing the very angry Commander. She’d not had the luxury of leaving.

 

The lecture had gone much like Cassandra’s – only louder. Evidently, Cassandra had not held back on her recounting of events, and Darienne’s tactical ignorance when it came to combat situations was the subject of the day. She shook the memory away, her face burning from embarrassment. She’d cried. She hadn’t even tried to defend herself or her actions. Somewhere inside she knew that she’d been foolish. That she’d been reckless. She’d actually turned her face from Cullen and tried to hide her tears. He noticed though. Dammit. He’d gone very quiet for a moment. Then put his fist through one of her interior walls before slamming the door. Outside his low growl warned anyone that disturbed her, would answer to him. That was the last she’d seen or heard from him.

 

She’d just laid there in pain reliving the diatribes of the danger she’d put her mission in, her Mark, their world. Not her though. Not once, had any of her irate compatriots mentioned Her life. She was secondary to her purpose. She was merely a figure head.

 

The chill of the wind on her face brought her back from her musings and she wiped her damp cheeks, refusing to shed another tear out of embarrassment or self-deprecation. She would not be a burden. She would not cost yet more lives for the sake of her own. But, neither would she stand back and let others fight for her. She was healing well, but wasn’t yet ready to return to the front lines. That didn’t mean she intended to wallow in self-pity in the meantime. It also did mean that she would change her actions should she find herself in the same situation. She simply needed to be stronger.

 

She’d put it off long enough. Since managing to be upright and mobile, she’d studiously avoided Cullen and most of her companions – claiming fatigue or plans with others – anything to not have to face them. Walking slowly up the bank, she glanced around. Cassandra was beating a practice dummy into oblivion. Not an uncommon sight, but she stopped when she saw Darienne glancing her direction, and made to move towards her. Quickly Darienne turned away and angled her ascent to take her out of the Seeker’s view. Pausing to be sure Cassandra didn’t follow her, she took a moment to observe the recruits.

 

Even their clumsy movements had the beginnings of fluidity and grace. Her side ached at the awkward angle she stood and she was reminded again of her purpose. Straightening her shoulders and putting on her ‘Herald’ mask, the one that lied calm confidence, she made her way through the ranks toward the tall cloaked figure in their midst.

 

Despite the throngs of scouts, messengers and lieutenants vying for his attention and the clamour of staged battle around him, he heard her approach. The one part of her combat ability that she wasn’t ashamed of was her skill to move quietly, even Varric had been impressed by her ability to sneak up on him. She supposed the footfall of mages was something of a sixth sense for the ex-Templar though, she was still ten feet away when he stiffened and cocked his head in the direction of her approach. With a nod, he’d sent his sycophants scurrying away and she found herself standing at his back alone. Her nerve waivered and she clenched her fists to try to hold onto some semblance of resolve.

 

She heard him draw in a deep breath and watched his broad shoulders rise and fall. She wasn’t sure if he was steeling himself for patience or trying to control his temper. After an agonizing moment, she thought she was going to have to actually walk around him and force him to look at her. Contempt and humiliation began to vie for control of her emotions. She may not be a warrior, but she was here and she would not be made to feel invisible. She grit her teeth, prepared to wait him out, when he sighed and turned to face her.

 

She wasn’t sure what she expected, but cold neutrality was not it. There was no acknowledgement that he knew her any more than any other Inquisition follower. None of the warmth of what she had thought to be a budding friendship. Anger, annoyance, and deep inside, a part of her that she refused to acknowledge, hoped for concern or perhaps more – but none of those things showed behind his cool gaze. Crossing his arms, he looked down at her. 

“Yes.”

 

“I…” she was so taken back that she faltered and looked away a moment to collect herself. When she looked back up at him, some warmth touched his eyes, if only for a moment before he contained it once again behind chilled gold. His arms relaxed a moment and he looked as though he might speak. Unwilling to relinquish her hard won determination, she plunged forward, “Train me.”

 

He blinked and all manner of emotion crossed his eyes; though she was privilege to none of their secrets. After a moment he shook his head, “No.”

 

“No?” her voice held a tremulous note that floated between incredulity and rage, “You, all of you, have – “

 

“Perhaps we should speak in private,” his voice dropped to a low growl, and he motioned toward the path leading away from the training grounds. Glaring at him with barely caged hostility, she turned and made a point of sauntering ahead of him. She heard him tell one of his lieutenants that he had important matters to discuss and would not tolerate a disturbance. At least she had his undivided attention.

 

She had no sooner passed through the gate exiting Haven when she felt the warmth of his hand on her back. The span of which covered most of her lower back and hips, despite her anger, it made her breath catch. She stopped and he spun her around, his hands gently gripping her upper arms. There was no coldness in his eyes as he leaned into her now.

 

“Are you mad?!” he fairly shook her slender frame, “You’re a mage!”

 

Wriggling out of his grasp she cursed and shook her head. She could feel the sting of tears again. _Gods, why was she one of those women that cried when she was angry!_

 

“No,” she looked at him, and all the rage and fear bubbled up inside of her, “and yes, I know I’m a mage, thank you very much. For your information Commander, a man whose been holding a sword since you were able to walk, I have not had the privilege of combat training – magical or otherwise. So before you all go off on righteous rants about my shortcomings on the battle field, perhaps you should remind yourselves that I didn’t choose this! I didn’t set out to come to this world, your world, to play hero. I saw someone that needed my help and I acted. I didn’t stand around wringing my hands waiting or hoping for someone more qualified than me to show up and make it right!

 

I tried. I tried to save her and I failed. I failed to save your Divine and I lost my home, my family and my world. For nothing. I gave it up to fail. Now I am trying to live up to the lie you have all created around me. A lie that is getting harder and harder to hide. How could I possibly be your Herald?! How can I possibly save this world?! I am a mage – an untrained mage who got thrown to you to be a symbol, a face to put to your cause. Do you have any idea how exhausting it is living up to your expectations?!”

 

Her tears were flowing freely now and she couldn’t even make out his features, but the dam had broken and she couldn’t hold back even if she’d wanted to.

 

“I can’t fight. I don’t know the first thing about martial combat except some embarrassingly rudimentary hand to hand techniques that I have never even put to use. So no, I don’t know how to fight. But I do it anyways. I go out there, marching beneath your flag and I fight. Poorly, yes, but I fight. I fight for you, I fight for your cause, I fight for your Maker and I fight for Your world! I will not stand back and watch lives crumble around me. I won’t stand and watch a friend, a compatriot or an innocent fall because I’m only supposed to look the part,” she clenched her fists and turned away. When his gloved hand touched her shoulder, she spun and punched his breastplate. He didn’t move and the pain in her hand did little to diminish her fury, “I want to learn to fight. I deserve to learn how to defend myself and the people I’ve come to care about. I don’t care that I am only a symbol to you – trust me, I hold no illusions that my value to the Inquisition extends beyond my left hand. I know this.”

 

She wrapped her arms around herself and turned away. Her anger spent, she was vulnerable to the fear and sadness that she’d buried for so long.

 

His shadow darkened her bleary gaze and the warmth of his hand as he touched her shoulder cut through the chill of the evening air.

 

“All right. I will train you.” His voice was soft and very close. She could feel the heat of his breath on the back of her neck. He stood with her in silence a moment while she calmed her breathing, awaiting her acknowledgment. When she could finally bring herself to nod, he let his hand slide gently from her shoulder. “Despite what you may believe, you are not merely a symbol. Not to them. Not to me.”

 

After a moment, she heard his footsteps receding and looked up.

 

The setting sun glinted off his armour, its soft rays lessening the harshness of the battle-worn plate. Cool evening winds tousled golden curls and what she’d always teasingly called his mane of red fur. Pausing at the gate he looked back at her before returning to his charges.


	19. Luck and Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen is forced to acknowledge his fears for his Herald and the reality that they have asked much and offered little...

He could still see her. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. Maker, she was breathtaking. All fire and ice. Even as she’d wiped the tears from her eyes, she’d stood with such grace; the sun behind her, her entire silhouette a golden halo. Every curve shone. Her softness made him ache in ways he hadn’t dared think about. The wind caught her hair, sending it dancing across her shoulders, strawberry flames licking the air around her. Andraste preserve him.

 

He shuffled the papers on the table, unable to focus. He’d been horrified by her words. Horrified that they, that he, had made her feel that she was less than a person. The sun was beginning to filter through the trees and the gray light of dawn reminded him that yet another night passed without his head touching the pillow. His recruits would be stumbling into their armour shortly. He had to get their days training schedule prepared for his lieutenants. He needed to prepare for Darienne’s first session with him.

 

If he was honest with himself, he had no idea what to do. Mages received different training, always from other mages and that had always been very rudimentary – at least within the context of the circles. A fully battle trained mage would be much harder to handle, especially if they became possessed. He shook his head. Darienne could not be expected to carry the burden she did without their support, without his support. She’d been right. They had thrown her into situations she had no reasonable hope of knowing how to deal with, if the little she’d shared of her world had been accurate. The fact that she had done as well as she had was further testament to her resilience.

 

He hadn’t meant to chastise her. None of them truly had. Cassandra had been as terrified for Darienne as he. Her account of the battle against the demons had chilled him to the bone. Not to mention her accounts of previous battles against the rebel Templars. The groups they were beginning to encounter were no longer arrogant recruits. Darienne’s brazen courage and seemingly fearless approach to combat had been worrying him for some time. Cassandra, Iron Bull, the warden Blackwall… even Solas had expressed concern.

 

It was not that she was clumsy or even lacked instinct. In fact, quite the opposite. She was by all accounts courageous, calculating and tenacious. Everything a warrior ought to be. But she wasn’t a warrior. She was a mage. A fine one with potential, according to Solas’, though Cullen had the feeling he was playing her talent down. He knew power when he felt it, he’d been around all manner of it in the Circles. Darienne’s aura rivalled some of the First Enchanters he’d encountered – and she was yet new to her magic. That being said, she was naïve and unused to the realities of combat. Instinct only got you so far. Raw talent took you a little further. Luck might keep you alive until instinct and talent matured. Courage though, courage could save you or doom you and right now, Darienne had more courage than anything else. As for luck, he shivered despite the sheen of sweat on his brow, luck was fickle and it would toy with a courageous person until they mistook it for knowledge. It was then that it abandoned them to find a new victim. He feared that Darienne’s luck was going to run out.

 

As they were branching into new territory, he’d gotten confirmation from Leliana that her scouts were encountering Templars of higher and higher rank. The rabble Darienne had initially been facing in the Hinterlands were untested whelps to his mind. The reports from Harding indicated more and more pockets of Templars showing up. The idea of Darienne being in a similar situation to the one she was still recovering from… he didn’t like what thoughts crossed his mind.

 

All Templars had received the same training he had. They’d been trained to kill mages. Brutally. Effectively. Then there were the rumours he’d been hearing. Rumours he knew to be true, though it sickened him. Templars engaging in vile crimes against their foes. To kill in battle was a matter of survival and a sad practicality. To rape – that was a cowards vice. He’d heard whispers that female and some male refugees had suffered at the hands of these monsters and lived to tell the tale. Mages however, he’d heard and seen evidence himself that they had been made to suffer repeatedly and savagely before being put to the blade. Her hand made her a target already. But the enemy only needed her alive, not unbroken. Bile rose in his throat.

 

He could not protect her. No one truly could. She needed to be able to protect herself. He would see her survive this terrible burden that had been placed on her. He grimaced as new nightmares began to take seed in his mind. The whisper of his tent flap was a welcome distraction.

 

“Lieutenant,” he didn’t look up, “it’s time to begin dividing the recruits according to their particular strengths. While being able to use any weapon is a necessity, we need to begin specializing the ones with specific aptitudes. Perhaps some drills to assist with this process will work. First though, run them up the mountain path to the west – they were lacking enthusiasm on yesterday’s run – perhaps today they’ll have a little more spirit.”

 

“Well, I think we can skip the classification part of the exercise,” he looked up at the melodic lilt of Darienne’s words, “I can tell you right now, that I’m more suited to staves.”

 

Maker help him. She stood across the table from him, a tentative smile playing on her pretty lips. Her auburn hair was pulled up in some sort of clip, strands already loose around her delicate face. Hazel eyes watched him warily, she was still raw. She wore no armour, only a light tunic that slouched on her slender shoulders but strained against her chest. A practical wrap tied around her waste emphasized its curvaceous silhouette and the generous curve of her hips. She bit her lip and he realized that his silence threatened to break the tenuous bonds he wanted so desperately to rebuild after their fight the day before.

 

“Umm… er,” he smiled and scratched the back of his neck, “yes and I suppose I won’t make you run up the mountain… at least not today.”

 

Darienne breathed an inward sigh of relief and grinned. She was rewarded by a rare smile that touched his eyes. She tried to find anything else in the tent to look at besides Cullen. His blond hair was tousled and he was wearing boots, breeches and nothing else. Muscles played beneath the pale golden skin of his broad shoulders as he shuffled papers and frowned at the various scrolls that littered his desk. In this soft morning light, she could see the scars that mapped his back and chest. Some silvered with time, others pale and pink with more recent pain. He had never mentioned how he’d received them, but she’d heard the rumours.  Despite Varric’s penchant for exaggeration, she knew that even his imagination couldn’t touch the unspoken truth. She wanted desperately to run her fingers over them, to show him that they were a map of his triumphs not his failures. His story charted over his skin, painful though it was, it was his journey to becoming the man who stood before her now. A man she respected deeply. A man she –

 

“Commander,” the gravelly voice of a time-weathered lieutenant, Byrnes if she remembered correctly, saved her from thoughts she figured it was best not to explore, “I apologize for the delay, couple o’ them apostates was whining about the noise at this early hour. Soft-spined ungrateful bast – my Lady Herald! Pardon the interruption.”

 

His tanned face nodded in respect and cast a glance over her, then Cullen’s clothing, or lack thereof. A smirk played on his lips for the briefest of moments before returning to the stoic grimace that seemed to be his expression of choice.

 

“Here,” Cullen levelled a glare at him before handing him a stack of papers. What passed between them, Darienne didn’t know, but the side glance the lieutenant gave her and the twitch of Cullen’s jaw left her with the distinct impression that she was the subject. The lieutenant nodded and paused in front of her.

 

“My Lady,” he smiled and left the tent.

 

***

 

The sun had crested the horizon by the time they reached the small meadow. Darienne, dropped her pack and stretched. He may not have made her run up the mountain, but she was sure that carrying a pack half her size and weight this far from Haven more than made up for it. Glancing around, she saw that it was not so remote as she’d initially believed. It was obviously a man-made clearing. There were a few rudimentary benches, a cold fire pit and what looked like a small chest of supplies and sundries. She turned a questioning gaze to him as he dropped his pack and began sorting through its contents. There was a disturbing number of healing potions.

 

He looked up and grinned wolfishly. Her heart skipped a beat and she found herself suddenly second guessing her request for his personal attention in the combat ring. Worrying at her lower lip, she half-carried, half-dragged her pack towards him. He stopped what he was doing and watched her clumsy efforts, a smirk playing at the scar on his lip. Her cheeks began to burn and she gritted her teeth and lifted the pack onto her shoulder again.

 

How she’d slain apostates, Templars and demons he had no idea. She made the hike without complaint or any hint of fatigue, but once she’d dropped the pack, she struggled to move its weight. He shouldn’t be surprised, her build and musculature wasn’t that of a warrior. Her figure clearly leant itself to the more delicate arts of casting, or more intimate – he shook those musings from his mind. This was not the time to indulge in thoughts he had no right to explore. He was here to train her to fight. He needed to look at her as he might any other recruit. He would give no quarter.

 

Seeing her struggle to re-seat the pack on her shoulders he let his amusement betray him. She was determined, stubborn and adorable. She saw his smirk and a pink flush rose up her neck and touched her cheeks. They’d be here all day if he waited for her. Rising, he closed the distance between them in a few long strides. With one hand he relieved her of her burden and tossed it several feet to land with the other packs.

 

“I suggest, that should you ever find yourself without a staff, you avoid picking up anything larger than a dagger.” He grinned as she laughed and flexed her slender arms, mocking the poses they’d both seen so many of the new recruits sporting about the tavern.

 

“What, does my fierce and intimidating physique threaten you?” she cocked a well-groomed brow at him.

 

“Threatened is not the word I would use,” he said softly. Clearing his throat and wanting to put distance between them, he returned to the packs, “We won’t be needing everything today, but we can store it here until you’re ready.”

 

She nodded and stretched again. He was thankful he had the packs to sort through to distract him. The faint scent of crystal grace and rose surrounded him as she knelt beside him to help sort through various vestments and other training paraphernalia.

 

Between them, they made short work of prepping her training ring. A fire crackled and took the mountain chill out of the air. She asked him of his training and his home. He answered as best he could. There were subjects he did not wish to speak of and despite his best efforts, when she strayed onto such a path, his answers were more curt than he’d intended. She never took offense, but did look at him with eyes that left him feeling like she saw everything he didn’t want her to. Always though, she’d respected his limits and he was more grateful than he cared to admit.

 

“This is the cleanest, most organized training ring I have ever worked in,” he looked at her as she began to fidget with the weapons rack, again, “no more procrastinating Lady Herald.”

 

_Damn_. She worried at her lower lip and flexed her hands trying to dissipate her nerves. She didn’t know what to expect. It was much easier when she could pepper him with questions and keep the focus on him. Now the focus, his focus, would be entirely on her. More specifically, it would be on all her weaknesses.

 

“You’re right, Commander,” she glanced at the disturbingly vast array of killing instruments again before turning eyes that she was sure betrayed her apprehension to the man before her. She forced her hands to her side and nodded her head in acquiescence, “I am at your mercy.”

 

His eyes raked the length of her and the light amber turned a deep shade of brandy. His jaw clenched once, then he nodded and turned away from her reaching for a sword made of a dull metal and a wooden shield. All the mirth and warmth in his face was gone when he turned back to her. He wasn’t Cullen to her now. He was her Commander and she – she was his recruit.

 

He rolled his shoulders and adjusted his grip on the sword and shield. It seemed as natural to him as drawing breathe. She was mesmerized and terrified all at once. He was a sight to behold, even in a simple tunic and training gear. He was deadly and probably more dangerous than any of the companions she’d yet traveled with. Blackwall was stalwart and strong. Cassandra was a force of nature. Iron bull, well, he was a beast, there was no mistaking his raw power. Varric and Solas were quiet threats to their enemies, powerful, yet subtle. Sarah was like having the Joker in your party. This man in front of her though, watching her with golden eyes, he was the personification of war itself. Built and conditioned to be an extension of the sword he carried, not the other way around. He took her breathe away.

 

“Better get your staff Herald,” his voice was low, thunder beneath a mountain. Her knees went weak and more than her heart shivered.

 

_Focus,_ she chided herself. It should take a lot more than a literal knight in shining armour to make her react like a silly swooning idiot. She sucked the crisp frosted air through her nose and nodded her resolve. She glanced at the weapons rack, but found no sign of her practice staff. Glancing around the ring, she frowned. She could’ve sworn she’d placed it with the other weapons. She looked back at the still form waiting for her and saw it leaning against the tree a few feet behind him.

 

“Oh,” she furrowed her brows and moved to get it. How had she misplaced it? A glance at the Commander made her stop in her tracks. He’d shifted his stance slightly. Did he think she would grab it and attack from behind? She let out a nervous laugh, “Don’t worry, I won’t attack you from behind… not on the first day.”

 

“I doubt you’ll be doing anything but defending today,” he rumbled, “or for a good many days after. Go ahead, my Lady, get your staff.”

 

She swallowed and looked at him. The corners of his mouth curved up in a predatory grin. Goddess, she was going to have to get passed him to her weapon. He seemed to read the next thought that crossed her mind. His voice low and husky,

 

“Defensive spells only.”

 

She nodded and smiled sweetly at him as she cast her Barrier spell.

 

No sooner did it take effect, than she heard the crackle of packed snow. The next thing she knew she was flat on the ground, the blade of his sword implanted firmly in the snow beside her head.

 

***

 

The sun was well past its zenith by the time she’d made it as far as the tree. She still hadn’t managed to lay her hands on the staff though. He never lost his temper. He simply helped her to her feet and nodded, then returned to his position and said, “Again.” Once or twice her own frustration had gotten the better of her and she’d waved him away, struggling to her feet herself, only to find a healing potion in her hands and his back to her as she regained her composure.

 

Her frequent contact with the frozen ground was beginning to take its toll on her, despite her protective spells and potions. She was dirty and frustrated. He looked like he hadn’t even broken a sweat. She shook her head and refocused. He’d countered her every attempt, swiftly and brutally. She was beginning to wonder how she’d managed to survive as long as she had on the front lines. How had they not skewered her over and over?

 

“Don’t,” his voice crossed the distance between them, cutting through her thoughts. Strong and resolute. “Don’t take that route. You are strong and resilient. You have survived thus far by your own merit. You are improving. You are also over thinking.”

 

He lowered his shield and walked toward her, a look of genuine concern on his face.

 

“Darienne,” he gently lifted her face to meet his gaze, “You were not supposed to reach your staff today. The fact that you have made it as far as you have and you haven’t given in to frustration is better than most I’ve trained. Now, impress me some more.”

 

With that he turned and walked back to his original position. “Again.”

 

She shook off her doubts and gave him a grateful smile before focussing on her next strategy. Surveying the terrain directly around him, she absently noted the small nod of approval he gave this line of thought. The fire would not be a deterrent. He’d simply jumped it the last time she’d tried. The collection of miscellaneous sacks held promise though. If she could use her momentum she might be able to get a high enough foot hold to launch herself over him. Maybe. Careful not to give her thoughts away, she shifted her focus back to his sword arm. Perhaps she could use his shield against him, roll her body with the momentum and get past? It wasn’t as though she had anything to lose at this point. She looked him in the eye and nodded her readiness. He tapped his sword to his shield and grinned.

 

She ran to his right and deked hard to his left just beyond his reach, spinning her body along the length of his shield as he brought it up. It bought her a few precious seconds and she used her energy reserves to get a firm position to leap from. Having planted one boot solidly, she launched herself in the air; only to land hard near the top of the sacks, when his large hand gripped her ankle and yanked her down. She twisted towards him, her back hitting the firm burlap and the weight of his body colliding with hers. The sacks tumbled and his arms wrapped around her, spinning her so that he took the brunt of the impact when they hit the ground. The momentum of their bodies slowed and she found herself beneath him, his arms protecting her. She realized that she wasn’t laying on the ground, but was instead on the inner curve of his shield. Her breath caught in her lungs as she became startlingly aware of his body on hers. His weight held her still and she could feel the strong beat of his racing heart against her own. He smelled of leather and steel, his stubble painfully arousing against her cheek. Instinctively she shifted her hips and nearly gasped at the warmth that flowed into her thighs.

 

There was a rumble in his throat and he lifted his face to look at her. His eyes were that same heady brandy colour that she’d seen before when he looked her over. Her lips parted and his gaze followed their movement before returning to her own wide eyes. He shifted his weight, lifting himself a little above her, but still holding her still, his hips heavy against her own. Every muscle in his body was shivering with tension. 

 

“Are you alright?” He brushed her hair out of her face. She was afraid of what she’d say if she spoke, so she merely nodded and licked her lips. His jaw clenched and he swallowed. She bit her lip and he groaned, taking her face into his hand and leaning heavily into her hips. She gasped, the pressure of him, hard and powerful against her heat shook her control and she arched her back.

 

He growled and grabbed her hip, holding her warmth against him. Running his thumb over her petal soft lips, he tilted her head back.

 

“Maker forgive me,” he whispered into her ear, lips brushing the curve of her jaw.

 

A crack in the trees behind them broke the spell. He was up instantly, sword in hand, ready to stand between her and any threat. Adrenaline surged through her and she cast a protective barrier around them both. Silence echoed louder than it should have. He shifted slightly and she rolled off his shield and began to draw energy into her. The same moment she noted movement in the shadows, Cullen launched himself several feet, his roar reverberating through the trees. There was a terrified scream and Darienne flanked the direction Cullen had taken, electricity crackling around her as her spell came to strength. She stepped further into the woods.

 

Cullen had a man pressed up against the strained trunk of a conifer. His feet dangled at least a foot off the ground, which Darienne noted absently, was quite a feat as the man had not been that much shorter than her Commander. She frowned, realizing the man was wearing Inquisition issued armour. The kind meant for their scouts. Glancing warily around the trees, she saw nothing that set her teeth on edge. She walked slowly towards the two men, their words too low to hear, the staccato bursts of the captive man and Cullen’s threatening rumble. She picked her way cautiously amongst the trees and deadfall, wary of anything that had Cullen that agitated. Static still crackled and her hair danced with the charge.

 

Cullen dropped the man, gasping, to the ground and turned to her.

 

“It seems we were to be the scout’s training practice this afternoon,” his grimace showing his distaste. She let out the breath she was holding and bent to disperse the magic she’d been carrying. She frowned at the man on the ground. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. Then she thought about what he’d almost interrupted. Her face flushed crimson and she risked a glance at Cullen. He ran his hands through his hair and looked at her. There was unfulfilled desire beneath the anger in his gaze. He shook his head and turned away.

 

“It’s getting late,” He picked up the scout with one hand and leaned into him. Whatever he said turned the man several shades paler than he’d already been. The scout ran towards Haven without daring look back. Cullen walked up to her, his face a mask of discipline and self-control.

 

“We,” he reached to touch her face and drew back, fist clenched at his side, “We should get back. It will be dark sooner out in these woods.”


	20. The Weight of Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darienne finally comes to a decision. One that will steer the Inquisition down a path from which they may not return, one that may steer her down a path she cannot return.

“You’re certain?”

 

Leliana furrowed her brow and looked up. Beneath the collection of parchment, scrolls and inquisition force markers lay the maps of Ferelden and Orlais. The figurines of Redcliff and Adamant dominated the landscape with their eerie glow, casting an ominous light over the table and the faces of the five who stood around it. It did not lend itself to instilling confidence in her decision. Darienne nodded and stood up, a challenge on her lips.

 

“I did not come to the decision lightly, Leliana,” she was careful to keep her voice soft and neutral, Leliana’s wisdom was not to be dismissed lightly. Looking up at the bard though, Darienne saw only concern and a trace of fear, “I agree with you Lily, about the power of the mages – they would make the Inquisition a force to be reckoned with – and their treatment in circles was clearly a matter that needs to be addressed. However, the ones I have been encountering in the field have displayed a disconcerting lack of empathy for the danger the world faces. They seem very self-absorbed in their own sense of persecution. While the Templars actions are little better, they at least, appear to maintain a certain unity – an ability to be led, should the right leader present himself.”

 

Her glance at Cullen was instinctive and she hoped that no one had caught it. She knew in her gut that they would respect him and his former position. He hadn’t earned the title “The Lion of Fereldon” without reason. Those that had joined the Inquisition rather than rebel certainly respected him and followed his lead without question. They had a secure base to build from using the Templars and a leader they would respect, one who knew them and could relate. Whereas the mages seemed as yet too unpredictable. She shook her head sadly and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, feeling the weight of her resolution. 

 

“Both mages and Templars ought to be held accountable for their actions once Thedas is secure again,” Cullen ventured gently. He knew well how she’d agonized over this choice, he could see it in her pale complexion and the slump in her shoulders. He could not lie to himself though, while he was pleased with her conclusion, but he wasn’t so proud as to dismiss the merits of magical allies.

 

Darienne glanced up at him, the ghost of a smile touching her lips as she nodded. He’d avoided being alone with her since that day in the woods. She wasn’t sure yet if she was grateful or disappointed. They’d settled into a kind of uneasy surface friendship and she found she missed the depth that she had felt between them. She also couldn’t forget the heat he’d made her feel – still made her feel. Shaking her head, she forced those thoughts back where they belonged. He was her Commander here in this chamber, nothing more.

 

The support of her advisors and friends was important to her, more than it probably should be if she was supposed to be taking the reins in this matter. His support, though, it gave her a confidence she didn’t necessarily feel. She’d been right when she thought he would be brutally honest and neutral in his assessments. Despite his personal feelings about the order or mages, he’d always given her the facts.

 

“The Templars are leaderless at the moment, and though Lord Seeker Lucius seems to have installed himself in the position, I have come across Templars that showed concern and hesitancy when following in his wake,” Darienne took a breath and stood, “Sir Barris is one example. I have run into him on more than one occasion and while he clearly respects rank it was obvious that he was not comfortable with the turn of events.”

 

Warming up to her reasoning, Darienne began to pace, trying to put into words the instincts she’d felt.

 

“I have also noticed that the other Templars would look to him, their glances were subtle – but he has earned their respect. Beyond that, the Templars are a trained military unit, they already know how to work together as a team. They are organized, disciplined and have proven that they will follow orders. They are a pack without a direction at the moment,” this time she openly glanced at Cullen, his subtle nod of assent showed her line of thought to be accurate, “They are used to having purpose and while Lucius’ diatribe in Orlais was grandiose, it was an elevation of himself – not a focus or direction. I think that the Inquisition’s directive is something we can convince them to get behind. Once that is accomplished they will be back in familiar territory. They will be protecting the world from the dangers of an unknown magic and paving the way for change in their future in an active way. The Chantry will see their pride of purpose and their defence of the land against hostile magic. Hopefully, once the Inquisition has fulfilled its purpose, the Chantry will be reminded again of the value of the Templar Order as well as giving them a respect that seems to have withered into expectation. Ideally, some mages at least with realise the value in the Templar’s assistance – and the Templars some respect for the plight of the people living with the pressures and dangers of magic.”

 

Josie nodded enthusiastically, though Leliana, Cullen and Cassandra frowned. She knew exactly what they were thinking.

 

“I know, I know,” she waived her hand and shook her head, “I’m an idealist and a daydreamer, but if we can bring about any form of reconciliation between these groups, it will make our job significantly easier.”

 

She paused, sighing. It really was a ridiculous hope; unburdening hundreds of years of resentment with nothing but ideals and the promise of saving the world. She knew well that the moment the imminent threat of the fade rifts was gone, allies would be all too happy to return to the more lucrative pastime of war.

 

“Regardless,” she sat on a stool in the corner resting her face in her hands. She was suddenly very tired, “This is my proposal, as far reaching as it is.”

 

“So be it,” Leliana nodded.

 

Darienne sought criticism in her Spymaster’s voice, but found only determination. The decision made, those at the table fell upon the map, moving and adjusting their respective identifiers and discussing various strategies regarding approach, allies and forward scouts. Cassandra listened and interjected her opinions here and there. Darienne felt at once relieved of the burden and oddly powerless. She’d held the responsibility of making the decision and with that done, she seemed to fade once again into the stone; a quiet statue. She was to be honoured and worshipped – a source of inspiration, but little more than an adornment. Not that she had much to offer, she conceded. They were the masters of their craft. If she was honest with herself, it wasn’t them that made her feel unworthy. It was simply the fact that she was well and truly without the necessary skillset to do any of their jobs. Certainly, she’d made an effort to gain a better understanding of her advisors and their strengths – and weaknesses – but she was unfamiliar with the realities of this world. She knew, logically, that she could not be expected, was not expected, to do any more than she already was. It didn’t make her feel any less swept away in the tides of the Inquisition’s tidal rush.

 

Exhaustion overcame her and she found it difficult to do anything but lay her head back against the cool stone and close her eyes. She hadn’t been sleeping well, despite the physical duress of travel and combat – training or otherwise. She was tired, bone deep weary. The choice that had been occupying so much of her mental fortitude for so long was suddenly dealt with and she found that she simply had nothing left. She concentrated on the voices of her advisors. Leliana’s quiet lilt, a blade sheathed in silk whispered amidst Josephine’s passionate sing song rhythm, clashing with Cassandra’s smooth cadence. Cullen’s low thrum deep beneath the lighter music of the women’s voices; quietly reverberating in her chest, a cello dipped in fine whiskey. _Gods_ , she thought as the haze of sleep pulled her farther from the room, _I could lose myself in the music of that man’s mouth_ …

 

* * *

 

_Wind ripped through her hair, copper tendrils turned to lashing whips, stinging her cheeks.  She stood at the precipice, there was no turning back. She thought to turn her head, to see where she was, where she had come from. A great dark fortress stood menacingly in the distance before her. The smoke filled haze of the sunlit sky stained the valley a foreboding crimson. Below, the fires of razed villages threw the midday heavens into a premature twilight. Behind her, only a mirror marked her passage.  Green forks of lightning danced along its ornate frame, licking it, caressing it as a lover might. Wisps of emerald reached for her, brushing her body with an intimacy that left her cold and hollow. Images flickered within its surface, a child, a man, both known to her but unfamiliar in this place. They shivered and changed. Where a dark haired man and raven haired child once laughed, now a blond haired knight tossed giggling ringlets of strawberry in the air with mirth and joy.  She saw them, but both spectres were that of ghosts she’d no memory of. Another finger of lightning traced a thin line of blood over her bared skin. A jolt, a flash of sorrow. It offered her memory or dream… for a price. Flickering green tongues whispered in her ears, begging her to turn from the pain and tragedy that lay ahead. Offering solace in things unremembered. They promised home…_

 

Darienne woke in the dark of her own chambers, a scream catching in her throat. Sweat and terror clung to her damp skin though she could not remember the dream itself. The cool of the mountain night overpowered the coals in the small fireplace and she shivered. Taking a moment to orient herself, she realized that her last conscious memory was of the voices of her advisors. She was still in the mage robes she’d been at the meeting in. Despite their heavy fabric, they did little to dispel the chill that remained of her dream. The faint scent of steel and leather with the earthy tones of pine and wood lingered on her clothes. Cullen had carried her in. The thought that he had held her close while she’d been so vulnerable chased some of the chill from her. She moved gingerly, as if she might catch the attention of whatever nightmare she’d been trapped within.

 

A shadow in the corner shifted as she did. So raw from whatever terror had haunted her sleep, she panicked, fire coming to the palm of her outstretched hand. It cast a warm glow over the room for a brief second before it was snuffed out. She’d barely had time to register the visage of the man in the corner before his hands covered her own.

 

 “You’re safe Darienne,” he urged as his Templar blessed gifts continued to dampen her magics, “you’re safe my lady.”

 

“Cullen?” her voice was tremulous with the haze of remembered fear and heavy with the stupor of deep dreaming. Her beautiful eyes were pale in the darkened room. Their normally rich amber and emerald flecks, now cold honey and winter faded leaves. He had not meant to startle her, but he knew well what it was like to swallow your own screams in the dead of night. He had not wanted her to be alone when the nightmare finally released her.

 

“Yes,” he pulled her shivering body close and crooned, “You are safe. I am hear. You are not alone my lady.”

 

He felt her tense in his arms, then succumb to the exhaustion he knew she’d been denying for some weeks. He simply held her, resisting the urge to run his hands through her auburn hair, contenting himself instead with watching the copper highlights dance in the glow of embers.  He listened to her erratic heartbeat slowly return to its gentle rhythm, a cadence slightly faster than his own. After a moment, her breathing steadied and she unfurled her arms to accept his embrace.

 

“Please don’t leave me,” barely a whisper as sleep once again claimed her.

 

“Never,” he murmured and pulled his Herald closer.

 

Sitting quietly in the dark, the Templar held his Mage, and chased the fear from her sleep…   

 


	21. Calm Before a Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just before Adamant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid it's just a super short chapter, I've been sick and hopefully I can get back at this ASAP

The persistent whine of the Marquis grated against his nerves and threatened his very limited self-control. The pompous ass seemed to believe that the cut of his leotard would somehow portray his self-deluded sense of station to a keep filled with rogue Templars. Worse, he was demanding that the Herald act, essentially, as his personal errand wench.

 

Darienne stood quietly across the table from him, her demeanor appearing that of a neutral observer save the occasional twitch of an arched brow. He wondered if similar thoughts of putting her fist through the smug noble’s mask played out behind those copper eyes. A brief clenching of her jaw as the ass referred to her yet again as the Inquisition’s ‘pet mage’ was answer enough.

 

Josie had prepared them all for the Marquis and his entourage of noble ‘supporters’. Sycophants. Cullen shifted his weight and crossed his arms in an attempt to dissipate his rising ire. These bastards had been nay-sayers not a month earlier. Word of Darienne’s deeds and moral fibre, sadly, had little to do with their sudden interest in the Inquisition’s intention of establishing bonds with the Templar Order.

 

He had to admit, Josie had played them perfectly. Whispers of favour and allusions to political advantages in the great Game she and Leliana delighted in playing had been enough to whet their ambitious appetites. He pulled a long breath through his nose and nearly gagged on the overwhelming miasma of cologne wafting around the nobles. _Maker’s breath._

 

The pounding in his head did little to temper his annoyance. They were getting worse, the headaches. At first it had been a dull throb in the morning hours when he would normally have taken his draft. More and more it did not fade with the day’s progression. He knew that this was only the beginning, though he wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. Rumours of the consequences of lyrium withdrawal ranged from excruciating to fatal. Of course the latter could not be verified since no living Templar had been known to survive, at least not with their faculties intact. A fact that did not shake his resolve.

 

The Marquis current tirade, something to do with his personal entourages travel arrangements, was cut short by Darienne’s quiet but firm, “Thank you, Marquis.”

 

Cullen wasn’t sure if it was inbred politeness or the shock of being interrupted that silenced the pretentious windbag. Either way, the near audible sense of relief in the room was palpable. The Herald spared the flustered man a brief, imperious glance before addressing her council. Cullen feigned clearing his throat to hide his smirk.

 

“Your gracious support of our late Divine’s cause speaks highly of your morality and faith,” she acknowledged his pride smoothly and humbled his ego with a subtle inclination of her head. Cullen imagined the duchess herself would be hard pressed to dismiss a member of her court with such courteous reproach. The Marquis and his associates bowed and took their leave. Once Leliana secured the door and confirmed their departure, Darienne sighed. Turning to Cullen, her eyes met his for a moment before focusing again on the maps cluttering the table between them, “Commander, you more than any of us, know the men and women we are approaching. Lady Cassandra, you knew the Lord Seeker. What can you tell us?”

 

Cassandra shook her head and leaned forward, her long fingers bracing the edges of the table.

 

“I cannot say,” her strong resonant voice dulled by confusion and apprehension, “The man we encountered in Val Royeux was nothing like the man I had met or heard about. It troubles me.”

 

Darienne nodded and glanced at Leliana, who grimaced but said nothing. He knew well that the Nightengale didn’t like the fact that her scouts had been unable to suss out any information of value. She was troubled, but unwilling to speculate without any information. Cullen sympathized. While he understood the frustration and the drive behind the Templar’s initial rebellion, their actions of late were simply beyond his ken.

 

“I can’t say I’m thrilled by the prospect of sending you to Therinfal Redoubt with little more than an honour guard,” he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the pain in his head and focus on the task at hand. The Lord Seeker’s sudden interest in the Herald was far more disturbing than the silence they’d received upon their initial requests for aid, “He wants something from you and the Inquisition’s request for Templar aid is the perfect guise to lure you there.”

 

Darienne’s lips turned up in a small smile that left her eyes cool. Standing, she flexed her left hand and rubbed it as though it ached. An unconscious movement he’d noticed her doing more and more often these past few days. A brief flicker of emerald lightning danced over her palm before subsiding within her clenched fist. She glanced at him, melancholy resting beneath her quiet gaze before resolution caged doubt.

 

“We knew this would likely be the case,” she crossed her arms and shifted her weight to one hip, the delicate balance between stubbornness and courage precarious, “The offer from the mages was no less fraught with danger. The question is simply how do we approach them and if the Lord Seeker is as we suspect, how can we potentially wrest the loyalty of the Templars from him?”

 

“Not with the Marquis,” Cullen snorted.


	22. Scars Unseen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition has the Templars, but at what cost?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a random side note - in case not everyone was raised by their grandfather...  
> 'seeing a man about a horse' is 'going to the loo'... best excuse I could think of for some privacy

Yet another rivulet snaked its way down her back, following the same cool path as countless droplets before. Her body registered the sudden cold sensation with a mechanical shiver, but her mind remained numb. They’d won. The Templars had been rescued from their own blind faith, though not without heavy casualties. Ser Barris was badly wounded and remained in and out of fevered delirium in the wagon they’d procured for the transport of the injured. The return home was almost more bitter than sweet. She’d let her pace slacken several times, falling behind the caravan simply to offer what gentle words and minor healing she could to the infirm and broken.

Now she returned to her position at the forefront of a party that more closely resembled a bloodied and battered army than diplomatic entourage. Darienne forced herself to look up; to look to the horizon, the path ahead. She told herself she needed to be another set of eyes for Leliana’s scouts whom she knew danced unseen in the trees and rocks around them. She made herself believe she was looking for Cullen’s party to meet them and assist them back to the Inquisition reinforcement camp her ravens had requested as soon as she’d had a moment to scribble it onto parchment when the situation at Theranfal Redoubt had turned from ugly to disastrous. She couldn’t remember how many words were scribbled in ink, or blood – no little of it her own.

In reality though, she simply did not want to get lost in the cadence of slow trudging footsteps on sodden earth or the rhythmic pattern of rain on the foliage around them. She didn’t want to be left alone in her head. Not after It had been there. She hugged herself and let her companions believe it was the cold damp that chilled her. It had gotten into her. Violated her, over and over; visions, fantasies of power, fear, lust – all forced on her, mingled with twisted versions of her own thoughts and dreams. She couldn’t recognize herself in those lies, those sickly sweet promises – she wouldn’t. It was rape in the most intimate way.

Her stomach lurched and bile and memory and filth overwhelmed her. She’d barely excused herself and made it to the privacy afforded by the undergrowth around them before dropping to her knees and vomiting. She wanted to, needed to be clean. She wanted to flay her own flesh from her body and cleanse herself over and over until the taint was gone. Until she couldn’t see Its desires wearing her skin.

“It tried to get in, but you did not let It in,” a pale hand gently brushed her hair back from her face, and stroked her cheek as she continued to retch, “Not truly. You are still you, Darienne… and I am still Me.”

“Cole,” she touched his cool dry hand with her own before shuddering as another volley of dry heaving over took her. The boy. The Spirit that was not. She did not understand entirely what he was, but she Knew. Just as she Knew he was an ally, Knew that he was, in his way, a kindred spirit to her, “Thank you.”

The gentle hand on her cheek paused a moment, lingering with uncertainty before moving to her shoulder with a reverence born of unspoken kinship.

“You are welcome.”

His presence faded with the breeze and Darienne found herself alone on the ground, with flasks of water and wine at her knees that she knew hadn’t been there before. He hadn’t gone far, she knew that much, but his attention was now focussed on those that filled the various carts. They needed his brand of magic more than hers just now and she set about cleaning herself up, grateful for his gifts and words.

Her hasty libations were interrupted by the trembling of the ground and the echo of what felt as much as sounded like rolling thunder. She could hear the horses and men shouting and moving about, attempting to group themselves in some semblance of strategic formation. Fear pushed to the forefront, and she charged back onto the caravan’s path running to place herself in the front ranks. Scouts were shouting and waving up the path, but their words were drowned out by the urgent calls of men, both wounded and not as they scrambled to protect the infirm from the unseen.

She scanned the path ahead, they were in a poor place to mount any kind of defence, in the shallows of a rising route into the mountain foot hills. The shaking grew more intense and the able bodied were attempting to drag the wagons into the cover of the forest while forcing the injured to stay put and not join the fray. Noble hearts all. It made her soul ache to imagine losing those that had fought so long and survived so much. Magic rode through her and she felt the prickle of lightning at her fingertips.

She charged ahead of the hastily fortified group and surveyed the area. Scouts were still waving and calling but the din overrode anything they may be saying. At last the unseen thunder crested the hill and she felt her knees go weak.

Inquisition banners few high as The Lion of Fereldon, his helm low and fierce, lead the charge. There was a savagery in the way the man and his mount stormed towards her that would shame even the glorious king of beasts. _By the Goddess_ , she shivered. Recognition rippled through both parties and the Inquisition forces lowered their weapons, though their charge slowed little. Relief audibly swept through the troops behind her and the carts of injured were coaxed back out of their camouflage.

The Inquisition forces slowed as they descended the hill, though their Commander continued at a pace that had her wondering if he intended to simply charge through them all. At the last moment, he pulled up and his frothing mount reared, skidding to a halt, great armoured hooves cracking the stone beneath. The man was no less terrifying. His large frame made larger by his battle armour was off the mount and striding towards her before the great beast even stopped its momentum. The leonine helm snarled and she could see the scarred grimace beneath. The Commander stalked up to her, stopping close enough for her to feel the heat emanating from his body. The scent of horse and metal and sweat washing over her; the scent of sweet salvation. He’d come.

His breath was deep and measured as he looked down over her. She realized he was trembling ever so slightly as adrenaline coursed through him and in his gloved fist he clenched a blood soaked parchment.

“Cullen, I – “

“Maker’s Breath!” he cut her off, and shook the letter, her letter, in front of her face, “I thought to find you dead!”

Cassandra came to stand at her side, whether to protect her from the enraged Commander’s wrath or bring his attention to the reality of their situation, Darienne wasn’t sure.

“It’s entirely possible you might have.” Her voice was even, though Darienne recognized the weariness behind the words and a hint of something more – though she could not put her finger on it. Glancing at the two warriors she thought she saw something pass between them. The Lion snorted shaking his head before looking beyond the Nevarran’s shoulders and taking in the walking wounded. He shook his head again and turned from them, walking towards his stoic charger.

“Andraste’s Ass –“

That was all she heard before the rest of the Inquisition troops caught up and the throng of voices and assistance had her whisked away to the nearest healers.

***

The sun had not yet touched the horizon before Cullen had arranged with several nearby farmers for the use of their lands to set up a temporary camp. He needed to get the survivors in fit condition to make the trek the rest of the way to Haven. Those that could not make it, or would not make it, were to be taken the short distance to a sympathetic Bann, whose loyalty to the Inquisition was assured by both Josephine and the Nightengale. He wondered whether it had been bribery or threats… he was not so naïve as to assume the man was offering aid entirely from the goodness of his heart. He would be sure to keep in contact and have scouts report on the treatment of the men and women under his care. Money was only good while in hand and threats required a willingness to make good on them. These men and women were – had been – his family. He’d recognized a few, if only to know their names or remember faces from the myriad of memories he still possessed. He would not see them released into unsympathetic hands.    

The task of setting up temporary barracks, field hospitals and arranging for the usual necessities to keep a troop such as this fed, healing and helpful was enough to keep his mind from the haunted look in Darienne’s eyes when he’d seen her standing in the path of his charger, ahead of the group. Alone, facing the onslaught of whatever was coming. Her hair clung to her face, strands brushed hastily away, tangled on the high, soft planes of her cheeks, curled and clinging to the damp swell of her heaving chest as she faced him down. Her eyes, even at a distance swallowed him as only the depths of a dusky forest might an unwary traveler. A dark, fierce beauty standing alone against the storm. It had been clear from the expression on her face and the static in the air around her that she’d not expected aid. She’d not expected him.  Considering the condition of the wounded behind her, he wasn’t surprised his letter had not reached her. He wasn’t surprised they’d expected yet more disaster to befall them.

His throat still tightened when he thought about the bloodied note falling on his desk. In retrospect, her writing had been impressively clear considering her inexperience with Thedas’ written tongue and the haste in which it had been written. The ink had splattered and moisture – both clear and the telltale ochre of dried blood had smudged a good portion. Help. That was legible. Red. Lyrium. Demons. All distorted but legible. All damning. That they had survived was testament to the enduring strength of their cause, the Templar heart and the Herald’s courage.

She had yet to cease amazing him. A private word with Cass had revealed yet another horror he’d have wished on no one, least of all the woman carrying a burden already so very heavy. A demon had tried to possess her. The Templar in him wanted to be sure that the susceptibility of being a mage hadn’t left her vulnerable. Hadn’t let it in to hide or leave a weakness for another to try to take advantage of. His brethren had spoken of her heroism and even admitted that they’d not seen a mage so handily dismiss the seduction of a demon.

There had been no seduction though. He knew that well enough. A harrowing was vastly different than the assault of an unwelcome attempt at possession. There was no persuasion. It was an assault. A rape. He sucked air in through his nose, using the familiar scents of wet leather, horse and mud keep his own memories at bay. He would not let her suffer if he could help it. He would not leave her alone in the dark with the memory of a demon’s touch.

In the back of his mind a whisper took form. Soft, insistent – then gone.

_Hurry._

***

It burned.

The frigid water tumbling over the small falls pierced her skin as a thousand needles of frozen fire burned and numbed her flesh. She didn’t care. If she let it penetrate enough, if she let the burn of glacial ice water seep deeply enough; the demon’s claws would be scorched away.

She fought the shivering that was beginning to hinder her movement. Rage welled up inside. She refused to let that… Thing take any more of her. Cole was right. It tried. It cajoled, threatened, pleaded and assaulted her, yet here she stood, alone in her head; the demon’s taint a memory only. It was not in her. It was not part of her. She let the rage ride her, let its power feed her magic. Fire, heat so intense it felt cool to her skin, rose up from within. The sigil of flame danced behind her eyes and she relinquished herself to it.

The air around her hissed and for a brief moment the waterfall evaporated into a searing cloud. Wind licked her bare skin; caressing her naked body with the purity of air and kissing away the taint she perceived on and within herself. She sucked the moist air into her lungs and let herself fall beneath the surface of the warmed creek with the plummet of the returning cascade of ice.

Her rage spent, the realities of hypothermia began to leech their way into her consciousness. Her limbs felt weak and numbness turned to warmth. Exhaustion crept through her and she wanted nothing more than to simply float inert beneath the surface for but a few more moments of isolated peace.

The thrum of the pounding waterfall was interrupted by the discordant thrash of water around her and the rumbled of thunder from above. The light behind her eyes shimmered and movement registered in the far reaches of her exhausted mind. She managed to open her eyes to see a great gloved hand reach into the water.

***  

He didn’t know how he knew where to look, but he followed his instinct. No one had seen her leave, which hadn’t surprised him. If she didn’t want to be followed, she’d spent enough time with Varric to slip away. Slipping away himself however, was significantly less simple. After the third scout assailed him with yet another question, he roared about needing five bloody minutes to see a man about a horse. That at least was still a Commanders private affair. He charged off behind a barn set some distance from the main encampment.

The rush of water echoed off the large building and stone ledge beyond. The area was sparsely treed and he noted few areas for one to approach unseen. Inwardly he felt some tension drain. Somehow, he knew this is where he’d find her. Cautiously he rounded the barn, not wanting to disturb what privacy she clearly needed, but feeling that urgency to assure himself of her safety.

She stood, shivering beneath the torrent of near frozen waters. Her soft creamy skin pale and translucent with the telltale indigo hue of hypothermia. Her deep red hair fell ominously dark over her bare back, the rush of water splashing along her slender waist and dancing over her curvaceous hips showing glimpses of her full, round bottom.

Embarrassed, he turned away. He’d no right to spy on her, certainly not in this state. He resolved to simply watch for intruders and –

The hiss of steam and fire touched his ears as a wave of heat rolled over him. Civilities be damned, he turned and watched the waterfall appear to simply retreat back over the ledge and a great mist of scalding steam rise from around the spot Darienne had stood but moments before. Wind whistled past him and swept the mist over her skyclad body. She stood in that moment, droplets of water glistening over her lush body. Her hands clasped over her heart, her large round breasts barely covered by her slender arms. The sun breached the clouds in that instant, casting countless prisms over her pearlescent skin. As with every moment, it passes. Time leapt forward, the rain of water returned cascading over her shoulders in full force. Her head dropped with her arms and the Herald fell beneath the surface.

Cullen raced forward, tearing into the churning pool. He reached in and found her arm. There was no time for delicacy. Something was wrong with her, something happened. He hauled her bodily from the hip-deep ice water and pulled her limp body to him. She remained limp and her skin burned with the cold of mountain winds. He growled his frustration and looked toward the bank to find towels and a warm fire in a small recess in the stone escarpment. He did not pause to wonder how it had appeared. Though his logical mind had known it wasn’t there but a moment before, his heart and other things reminded him that he would not have noticed a herd of giants with Darienne naked in a waterfall.

He wasted no time laying her on one of the blankets. Her rose dusk lips were now a faded twilight and her chest did not move to draw breath. He’d seen people drown, had seen them brought back from the Maker’s side by pushing the water from their lungs and giving them breath. He placed his hands between her breasts, even in his haste careful not to violate her privacy or touch her beyond the necessary. He thrust down and her body convulsed beneath him. He repeated it and bent to those frigid lips pressing his breath and his warmth into her.   

Her back arched and her mouth gaped open, choking on the ice in her. He rolled her onto her side and held her as she spilled the water from her lungs. Chastely, he covered her with the blanket and stroked her hair as she sputtered and gasped, relearning the rhythm of her breath. Her breath and consciousness recovered, she curled into a fetal position and began to tremble as the shock of the cold within and without took hold.

Cullen took off his gloves and armour. Picking her up, he pulled her onto his lap and pressed her close to his chest. With the heat of the fire on one side and his own body heat on the other, he eased her shivering as his warmth drove the cold away. She tried to look up at him, to speak. With a gesture he hushed her and took her pale hands and rubbed his own over them, blowing his breath onto them and the pale blue slowly returned to the creamy rose of her natural colouring.

“Cullen,” she looked up at him finally. Her voice broken and hoarse from the water, “What happened?”

She glanced around, then down at her own cloaked nakedness. A flush of crimson bloomed over her collar bones and reached her cheeks. He set her hands down and shifted the blanket that she might slide them beneath without revealing herself. She paused a moment, then wrapped her arms around herself. Swallowing she looked him in the eyes, those beautiful forest pools wide with concern and… trust he thought. It was embarrassment at her state of undress and not fear that plagued her. He felt a pang of guilt at the pleasure that thrilled through him when he’s seen her naked body in the faded mist, though it had not been his intent.

“I don’t know,” he said. Shifting his legs to allow her to sit up and him to focus on her face. Now that the immediate danger had passed, he was startlingly aware of the loose fabric hiding that exquisite vision, “I, umm, I was worried about you. No one had seen you for some time. I went looking to find you. You were in the waterfall, fire exploded around you and you fell beneath the surface.”

He blushed, and rubbed the nape of his neck, wondering if she’d assume he’d been watching her like some wretched cretan. Shaking his head, he plunged on.

“You didn’t come back up. I went in after you. You, err, weren’t wearing anything and you were blue from head to toe. You weren’t breathing, Darienne.”

Darienne frowned thoughtfully a moment, worrying at her lower lip as she always did when she was trying to remember or tease out something that eluded her. After several heartbeats, she nodded and smiled at him. Clasping the blanket to her breast, she reached out and took his hand.

“Thank you Cullen. I cannot express how grateful I am, for not only this, but other times when I know you have been there to protect me – too often from myself it seems.”

A shadow crossed her eyes, but she shook it away and gazed earnestly at him.

“The demon,” she whispered, “it – “

“Don’t,” Cullen took her face in his hands, amber eyes aflame, “don’t do this to yourself my lady.”

He stroked damp tendrils from her cheeks and lifted her chin.

“You beat it. You did not let it in. You are still you, Darienne.”

His words, familiar words, echoed in her ears as he stood, offering her his hand.

He helped her up then unclasped his cloak and placed it over her slender shoulders. She held his gaze a moment, those hazel eyes searching. A resolution crossed her face and a smile shadowed her soft pink lips, then she nodded and turned back to the fire.

_She is still Darienne,_ he let the thought warm him and give him hope. Then another whisper, _just as I am still myself._

He stood with the Herald in front of the fire, both enjoying the silence of their own thoughts.


	23. Risen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and the companions search for Darienne as Darienne tries to survive the foreboding wilderness of the frostbacks...

Mountain winds tore at his clothing despite the meager shelters they had erected. Its constant howling ringing in his ears; a keening he imagined to be her screams. It was relentless. Logic failed to assuage his guilt and Varric’s haunted eyes did little to stem the tide of nightmares in the back of his mind. He’d left her. They’d all left her.

 

“First light,” Cassandra’s voice cut through his dark thoughts, “we will search again at first light. I have faith.”

 

“Yeah, right.” Varric shook his head and glanced over the twilight horizon, eyes falling on the crumbled mountain that appeared a lifetime away. Rubbing his forehead and sighing, he turned and stalked to his tent.

 

Cullen glanced up at the Seeker. She stared into the fire as though willing some form of auspice to leap from the flames and guide them to their fallen Herald. She and the others that had stood with Darienne in those last moments before the dragon and Maker-knew-what had separated them, all wore the same troubled expression. They had been able to give little information save that a great hulking form stepped from the smoke and bore down on the injured mage. They’d held off the red-lyrium tainted mages long enough for he and Leliana to get the vast majority of Haven’s survivors out, but the price had been high. Cassandra still favoured her left arm, though the stiches were holding well. Varric’s nose suffered yet another break and Bianca sat cradled awkwardly against the shoulder that hadn’t been dislocated. Solas kept his own counsel, refusing accept any healing, though Cullen had seen enough violence to note the telltale limp as the elf wandered away from the group to lay alone. He’d healed himself, Cullen imagined, though a broken leg would require time as well as magic.

 

Sir Roderick moaned and was overtaken by another fit of coughing. The blood flowed more readily now. The man had little time. Cullen berated himself and whispered a prayer to Andraste. He was angry. He held the Chantry brother partially responsible. If the bloody ass hadn’t been so busy trying to denounce the Inquisition, if he’d just helped – maybe, maybe this could have been avoided. Maybe the Herald could remain a beacon of hope rather than… he grimaced and grit his teeth… rather than a martyr.

 

Revered Mother Giselle hushed the dying man and held his hand, whispering words of comfort and devotion. It was almost more than Cullen could take. He shook his head and growled.

 

“Bloody bastard should be thrilled,” he stood and walked away from the fire and to the fringes of darkness, “he, in all likelihood, got his damned wish. The Herald has probably been brought to his barbaric justice. The Chantry will be ecstatic.”

 

He stood trembling with anger. Darienne had never once complained. Never once blinked at the notion that saving their world might cost her her life. He knew damned well that she hadn’t expected to return from closing the rift, and not once had she cowered. The others knew it as well. The strange, beautiful mage that fell from the Fade had done more for their cause than they had dreamt possible.

 

“You blame him…” Mother Giselle’s soft words held no accusation, merely a note of quiet sadness. She stood just behind him, her weathered hand gentle on his arm.

 

Cullen shook his head and growled. He did, yet he didn’t. He wanted someone to blame – something to justify the loss – for he truly feared the Herald to be lost. How could she not be? His gaze looked out once again into the dark valley that had been Haven.

 

“I…” he swallowed, “No.”

 

He sighed. There was no blame to be laid but at the feet of whatever monster did this. Even the bitter comfort of self-loathing wasn’t his to carry. He’d done what needed to be done to save the majority. The Inquisition was formed to save the people, not a figurehead. To have done so would have made them no more useful than the mages or Templars or the bloody Chantry at this point. They had done the right thing, and that was part of the sting. There was no fault in it and thus they were denied their anger. It was simply the price that must be paid and in the long term it was worth. It pained him more than he was prepared for.

 

“Andraste preserve me,” he shook his head, voice soft in the wind.

 

“Have faith, young Templar,” there was a smile in the Revered Mother’s words. It warmed him despite the chill air, “What makes you think that the Herald would have been delivered to us from the Maker only to be taken before His work is done?”

 

“Is that what you believe Revered Mother?” Cullen turned to look at the time worn face. She had seen a good deal in her days, not coddled behind Chantry walls, but out in the world, living Andraste’s word, not merely speaking it. There was a deep sorrow in her eyes that belied years of endurance and the pain that so often tinges blind faith; but there was the warmth of hope, the inner glow of a faith renewed, a faith proven. She turned from him and looked out over the dark.

 

“I want to believe,” she said gently, “and there is power enough in that.”

***

 

Dawn crept over the sky, its first grey fingerlings stretching over the shadowed forest. Had she not stared so many hours at the dark forms swaying in the storm’s wind, she’d never recognize the dim haze as daylight. The shelter of the collapsed tunnel provided little refuge from the blizzard beyond. Drifts of snow crept through the opening, a slow and inevitable tide of ice. She’d managed to keep herself from the brink of hypothermia with calculated use of her fire spells. She hadn’t wanted to chance giving away her position with a proper heat source, the dragon and Corypheus had flown off, but she was unwilling to bet that they would not return. Between the wolves and the wind and her own fear she was sure she’d heard the echo of wings overhead in the night. As pale light filtered through the blanket of cloud, logic could more readily grapple with her fears… and pain.

 

The explosion and fall had torn her up badly, though the bindings she’d fashioned from her clothing seemed to be holding well enough. She’d sipped at the one healing potion she had, Gods knew what else she’d run into. The demons had been nearly overwhelming, had she not been able to feel the Fade reach out to her in her moment of desperation… Opening her other senses to the sounds and smells around her, she tore her eyes from their vigil and looked again at the mark on her hand. She could feel it all the time now. It was not so much painful anymore, but akin to wearing a new piece of jewellery, it was odd and mildly uncomfortable in her awareness of it. The thrum had quieted, though she found that when she concentrated on it, it seemed to return, as though answering her unspoken call. Something to discuss with Solas… should she survive long enough to find them. She grit her teeth and shook her head, refusing to doubt that they had survived. Swallowing and permitting herself a larger flame than she had in the night, she spent that precious energy to warm herself more thoroughly.

 

She couldn’t hide in here forever. She’d scavenged what she could and rested as long as she would allow herself. It was becoming a matter of staying there to starve or freeze, or taking the chance that she could find the refugees and possibly starving and freezing. A howl broke through the din of moaning wind. _Or eaten_ , she added ruefully as she tried to determine whether or not it was her imagination that made the wolves calls sound closer than the day before.

 

She tightened her bandages and secured the dagger she’d found in her waistband. Injured, cold and hungry, she didn’t have much more than stubbornness and hope to propel her into the storm. Her mana was very low and she didn’t want to use it except in the direst of circumstances. Glancing back into the fallen tunnel, she took stock of the detritus, being sure there was nothing that might be of use. Satisfied she’d prepared as best she could, Darienne stepped into the alpine winds.

 

Cullen had given her a small map of the area, and indicated where he intended to take the survivors. Nothing had been marked of course, he’d simply shown her with one gloved finger the route they’d intended. She’d spent a good deal of time glancing at the sweat and bloodstained parchment in the few days after the fall. Glancing back over her path, she prayed that the drawing of mountain peaks had been accurate and that she’d oriented herself properly.

 

The wind picked up and she was buffeted by snow. What was left of her cloak did little to shield her. Movement to her left had her dagger in hand and the charge of lightning beginning to dance over her skin, the wind all but silent in her alert ears. A moment to focus showed her no threat, but instead a pair of nugs frolicking in the snow as if there was no blizzard around them. She shook her head and prepared to move on when something else caught her eye.

 

Half covered by a snowdrift, a fire pit lay barely visible along the treeline. She might have missed it if not for the silly little beasts. Making her way over, she felt hope warm her belly. It was cold and much of the ash had been dashed out by the wind. One of the rocks had a notch in it and she grinned. She’d seen scouts do this when she’d been out in the middle of nowhere. They’d abandon a camp, but if they were expecting to return or for an ally to come through the area, they would notch a rock and leave a note or supplies beneath the rock three to the left. Hurriedly, she pulled up said rock and found a small bundle. A healing potion, an apple and dried ram’s meat. She dared finish the remained of the dregs of her preserved potion and tore into the apple, tucking the meat and other draft into her satchel. Wasting no time, she reopened her map and gauged her position before following the treeline further up the mountain.

 

***

“I say we retrace our steps,” he leaned over the map, jaw set, “She knew which way we were headed and where we were intending to set up camp. Circumstances after the blast forced us to veer off course to the east, but not that far. We should go to the original coordinates and follow our path back towards Haven.”

 

Solas shook his head.

“She is unfamiliar with our geography, Commander. She could be anywhere.”

 

“She can read a bloody map Solas,” he growled.

 

“I agree,” Cassandra interjected, stepping strategically between the two males. Neither was in their best form. Solas clung to Darienne’s alien origins and seemed to refuse to believe, or want, her to embrace integration into Thedas. As for Cullen, she knew well that his feelings for the Herald ran deeper than that of an advisor or friend, “Cullen is right. Retracing our steps is the most logical course of action. Leliana can send what scouts she can in other directions. We must be systematic in our search.”

 

Cullen nodded his approval, but paused when the Seeker caught his eye.

 

“We must keep our heads,” the words were for him and he knew it. She turned to Solas, “Your leg is clearly still healing. Stay here, Solas, heal. We will find her.”

 

“Cold.”

 

All three looked up at the boy that Darienne had brought back from the Templar stronghold. His hat drooped over his face, small icicles forming at odd angles over its edges.

 

“There are blankets over there,” Cullen growled, “we are busy at the moment… errr… Cole”

 

The boy remained still, tilting his head up, confused and pleading eyes trying to say words he clearly didn’t know.

 

“You are a spirit,” Solas smiled indulgently at him, “the cold should not harm you as it would a human. Let it pass through you.”

 

Cullen rolled his eyes. The mage looked at ‘it’ as a pet of some sort, he didn’t like it. It reminded him vaguely of the way he looked at Darienne… as though the apostate was studying her more than seeing her. He was well aware that he had issues around mages, but the elf made the lyrium still in his veins burn. Something wasn’t right, though he couldn’t put his finger on it.

 

“Hey kid,” Varric took Cole by the shoulder and turned him very pointedly, away from the apostate elf, “you okay? What’s wrong? There’s more blankets if you need.”

 

“No,” the hat flopped back and forth, “not me.”

 

He gazed south west of their position, towards the ruined mountain.

 

“Creeping, crawling, ice and fire. One more step, just one more, and then another. Cold, so cold. The howling, it follows me. Don’t stop, one more step, one more… they’re coming” he pulled away from the shocked dwarf and grabbed Cullen by the wrist, his grip surprisingly strong for so lean a youth, “there.”

 

He pointed the direction of their intended route, then released Cullen’s hand and began to walk with purpose. Cullen followed, Cassandra close on his heels. The boy paused at the edge of camp, looking back at Cullen.

 

“She is not far, but too far alone.”

***

 

The light ebbed and she knew well that the howls were no longer calls to locate her, but the coordinating efforts to ensnare her. She’d counted no less than 4 different voices among her unseen pursuers. She neared the crest of this slope and prayed that she was not imagining the orange glow that faintly touched the base of the darkening clouds beyond.

 

Shadows shot through the trees to her left as the pack closed in. She glanced skyward. There had been no sign of the dragon or any tail other than the wolves. She would have to risk her fire here, the dagger in her hand would do little through their thick fur and her skill at wielding it would not help her chances.

 

The attack came earlier than she’d expected. The slender birch probably did more to save her life than any fleet maneuver on her part. The brazen beast had charged early and she’d been able to fallback enough that the poor tree rather than her bones, shattered between snarling jaws. Jumping back against the largest pine she could find, three sigils glowed in the snow around her. The dream of fire danced on the sparkling surface of the iridescent snow, casting motes of red and orange light through the trees. Four. Four sets of fangs glistened in the dark. She stood, watching them closely. They needed to charge her and she needed whatever luck was left to her for her secondary spell to work.

 

As was her lot in life, luck was a tease. Three charged her only to be consumed by the exploding runes beneath them. The largest watched as his comrades writhed. She’d hesitated, waiting to see if her gambit worked. The great beast stared malice at her from beyond the twitching corpses of his pack. At best, she’d hoped for them all to fall to the sigils, at worst she’d expected any survivors to turn tail and flee, allowing her to fade step and prevent her tracks from being connected and followed later. The alpha staring at her had other ideas.

 

She didn’t have the strength for much else at this point. The wolf howled and dove at her. Darienne screamed and threw her hand up, ice engulfing the enraged beast. Time was precious. The frozen form dropped unceremoniously to the ground and she scrambled onto its back, thrusting the dagger repeatedly in between ribs and tearing at its exposed neck. The spell wore off seconds later, the beast gurgled and snapped at her exposed leg, its death throes launching her backward.

 

She opened her eyes to see the corpses of the wolves still steaming in the cold air. She brushed her hair from her face to find her hand bloodied and the warm copper tang in her mouth. She could not afford to tarry here, other predators would be attracted to the blood. The puncture marks on her leg burned and she sacrificed the remainder of her cloak to bind them.

 

The orange glow was more distinct now as darkness fell easily over the mountains. Her leg hindered her progress more than she wanted to admit but stopping was hardly an option. The shivering did little to help. The ruins of yet another campfire stood at the crest of the hill. The ashes were not so strewn here and the snow had yet to overtake it completely. Perhaps, just a rest. She was so cold. Her injured leg gave out on her then and she screamed as the fall tore at the slow-binding flesh the last of her potion had worked to heal.

\------

 

“It’s getting too dark Cullen,” Cassandra fought not to let her voice crack. They’d felt so much hope when they’d started this way. Hope she knew should never have come to them considering the boy-demon had seeded their ears with it. Still, she would not give up. She could not. Despite her coolness, she cared for Darienne. The woman had been nothing but honest and kind in all her dealings with her. She offered friendship freely, even as Cassandra had rebuffed her. She had not had a friend in a very long time. Colleagues, lovers – yes, but a friend was a luxury she had not permitted herself. Justinia had been the exception. She would not lose another, “we should at least set up camp – ”

 

Cullen froze and held his hand up to silence her. Her great sword was in her hand and her ears cocked to the wind.

 

The boy nodded and raised his head to the air as though sniffing for a scent. Cullen bounded toward the crest of the hill before them.

 

Everything went silent for him. He’d heard it, he was sure. The wind moaned and howled, but this was neither. A scream. Her scream. There had been a camp they’d set just beyond this hill. If she’d been following as they’d all hoped…

 

He bounded over the peak and saw as she fell to the ground, blood-slick clothing and matted hair. She looked up as he called her name, dull eyes reignited with hope. A small smile touched her lips as she reached for him, trembling. Dropping to his knees he scooped her up.

 

“Maker’s Breath,” he sighed, “She’s here! Hurry!”

 

“Thank the Maker!” Cassandra drooped down beside him, pulling potions and blankets from her pack.


End file.
